


Pater

by TaraxacumWine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean Winchester, Car Sex, Child Abuse, Consent Issues, Daddy Issues, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Domestic Violence, Established Relationship, Family, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Hurt Dean Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Relationship(s), Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Weechesters, with some occasional switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 131,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27874474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraxacumWine/pseuds/TaraxacumWine
Summary: When Dean and his partner Castiel receive an invitation from his estranged father’s girlfriend to spend Christmas with them, Dean reluctantly agrees, seeing an opportunity for closure, or maybe even rekindling a relationship. But will the trip do more harm than good? At what point will Castiel decide that all of Dean's baggage is just too much?Is it possible to start over with your father when he wasn’t much of a father to you in the first place?Updates weekly.
Relationships: Alastair/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Castiel/Bartholomew (mentioned), past Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester - Relationship
Comments: 85
Kudos: 164





	1. scavenged.

**Author's Note:**

> See bottom of the chapter for trigger warnings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unwelcome guests, then and now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See bottom of the chapter for TW.

_Life is so strange when its changin', yes indeed  
_ _Well, I've seen the hard times and the pressure's been on me_  
 _But I keep on workin' like the workin' man do  
_ _And I've got my act together, gonna walk all over you_

**21 years back.**

The Impala’s headlights shined through the curtains on the front windows, bright light washing over the room in a white wave.

Bobby took a breath, steeling himself, and laid his book down open-faced on the kitchen table. He stood up and stretched, rousing himself, and walked into the living room where the Christmas tree stood sentinel. He plugged in the dull, multi-color lights, and they flickered a few times before staying lit. Bobby didn’t usually have much reason for putting up a tree, but he decided to do it for the boys’ sake. Even through John would hate it.

John had called him that morning, said he had a long job waiting for him, and he needed Bobby to watch his sons. Probably didn’t have the cash to stow them in a hotel room for a month. He didn’t ask; that wasn’t John Winchester’s way. He had a need, and Bobby was going to oblige. John said he’d be in Sioux Falls “that evening,” and hung up the phone, and Bobby supposed he was lucky that John had bothered to give him a head’s up at all.

He returned to the kitchen, and sat down to finish his beer.

The headlights went black, plunging the living room back into darkness, save the twinkling lights. A minute later, heavy footsteps thumped across the porch. The front door swung open hard, knocking back against the wall, and John stomped into the house, trailed by his two sleepy-looking sons. The older one held a large duffel on his shoulder, and was clutching the younger one’s hand tightly. The younger one was holding a book and looking around the house with wide-eyes. _Dean,_ Bobby’s mind supplied. _And Sam._ It had been a few years since the last time he’d seem them, and they’d grown a mile.

“C’mon in,” Bobby called, trying to sound welcoming. For the boys’ sake.

“Bobby,” John said in way of greeting. He looked at Dean and barked, “Take your brother upstairs and find a bed.”

“Yessir,” Dean mumbled, and tugged on Sam’s hand.

“Whoa, whoa!” Bobby called. “Hold on, there. Come say hello first.” Dean paused, and glanced up at his father, who gave him a short nod. Dean let his duffel bag slide to the ground, and he pulled Sam into the kitchen. “Is that _Dean?”_ Bobby said, putting as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could.

Dean, blond, green-eyed, covered in freckles. He straightened up and nodded. “Yessir.”

“No, that can’t be Dean!” Bobby said. “You’re almost as tall as your old man!”

Dean’s face split into a huge grin. “Nah,” he said, and actually blushed.

“You remember me, doncha?” Bobby said. “I’m your daddy’s friend.”

“I know who you are, Bobby,” Dean said. “I remember you. You gave me the candy. And the picture frame.”

Bobby couldn’t believe he remembered that. He wasn’t sure if it made him happy, or desperately sad. “Well, don’t be a stranger, boy! Come gimme a hug.” Dean released Sam’s hand, and Bobby wrapped him up in a big bear hug, and then, because Dean was laughing giddily, Bobby picked him up off the floor and swung him around. He sat back in his chair. “How old are you, now? Sixteen?”

Dean continued to laugh. “No! I’m eleven.”

“ _Eleven?_ Lord, I’m getting’ old.” He kept a hand on Dean’s back, and pulled Sam over by one too-long sleeve.

“C’mere, Sammy. Whatcha readin’, there?” Bobby picked Sam up and sat him down on his knee. Sam was much shorter, darker-haired, and still had his baby fat.

“ _White Fang,_ ” Sam said, and held up the book so Bobby could see the cover.

“That’s awful long, ain’t it?”

“It’s a chapter book,” Dean said with open pride.

“You helpin’ him with it?”

“He don’t need my help,” Dean said, as Sam chirped, “I don’t need help!”

Bobby laughed out loud, clapping Dean on the back. “You two grubs eat dinner yet?” he said, glancing up at the clock – just after 9PM. Dean’s smile faded, and he glanced at his dad. John was opening the liquor cabinet and helping himself to Bobby’s Jim Beam.

That was a no.

“We… Dad says we gotta go to bed,” Dean said quickly.

“But I’m _hungry!”_ Sam whined. Dean looked at him and shook his head quickly, and Sam hunched his shoulders and pouted.

Bobby looked at John. “What do you say, John? Burgers?”

John poured three fingers of bourbon for himself. “Fine,” he grunted.

“I want extra cheese!” Sam cried.

“All right, all right. Extra cheese for Sammy.” Bobby looked at Dean. “What about you, Dean?”

Dean almost lurched forward in eagerness. “C-Can I have onions? And cheese and ketchup?”

“Onions and cheese and ketchup, comin’ up.” Bobby set Sam on his feet, and stood up. “Why don’t you two go hang out in the other room. There’s TV and some puzzles if you want to put one together.”

“I wanna do a puzzle,” Sam said, as Dean took his hand and pulled him into the other room. A moment later, Bobby heard Sam exclaim, “Look at all the _books!”_

Bobby grinned. From the table, John grumbled, “You shouldn’t coddle ‘em.”

Bobby rolled his eyes, and went over to the fridge. He pulled out the American cheese – only slightly stale. “ _You_ shouldn’t forget to feed ‘em. Hell’s wrong with you?”

John sipped his drink.

Bobby threw the frozen burgers onto the stove and cooked them up, then put them together (extra cheese, cheese and onions), grabbed two cokes and a bottle of Heinz 57 from the fridge, and took them out to the boys. Sam was pouring over a book from the shelf, a huge American history book filled with art. Dean was on his side on the couch, clicking through the seven available channels.

“All right, you grubs; soup’s on.”

Dean sprang up from the couch, grinning. “Thanks, Uncle Bobby!” he said, taking the plate and the ketchup bottle from his hand.

“Careful not to spill anything, now,” Bobby said, lowering the sodas to the coffee table. Sam was trying to lug the book over to the table with him. “You eat and wash your hands, and then you can go back to that book.”

Sam pouted, setting the book on the rug. “Fine,” he mumbled. Bobby watched them eat for a moment, pleased, then went back to have a drink with John.

It was the night before Christmas eve.

***

Bobby was at the table, sipping his coffee, reading the paper. John had slunk out of the house around 4AM; Bobby had heard him rustling around in the guest room, the tread of his boots on the stairs, the front door slam, the Impala’s engine as it rumbled away. Bobby felt the blunt edge of anger pushing against his gut, a resentment at being put in this position. Bobby, he’s got nothing better to do than watch John’s kids for him. Sure, no problem! Abandon them both here for Christ-knows-how-long. Please, do!

Bobby turned the page in the newspaper jerkily, ripping it at the seam.

Quick footsteps on the stairs; someone was awake. Bobby got up and walked into the living room, just as Dean came down the stairs in too-short pajama pants and a too-big USMC sweatshirt that clearly belonged to John. His hair was a mess, pillow creases still on his cheek. Dean looked around, his face crumbling, and then he ran to the window. He shoved the heavy curtain aside and peered out at the frost-covered yard.

“Dean? What’s-…?”

“Where’s Dad?” Dean said, his voice high and choked.

Bobby wanted to punch the wall in frustration. Of course. John hadn’t bothered to tell his sons where he was going.

“Your dad has a logging job,” Bobby said. “A long one. He wasn’t able to take you two with him. You’re gonna stay with me for a few days.” Dean didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at him. His fist was tight on the curtain. “I don’t s’pose he mentioned any of that to you.” Dean shook his head. “He’s comin’ back soon, boy. Coupla weeks, tops.”

Dean stared hard at the window, tears bubbling up in his eyes. He nodded soundlessly, and wiped his face on the grubby sweatshirt sleeve. “Knew it. I knew…” He sniffled. “It’s fine,” he said, quietly, and turned away, letting the curtain fall back into place. Bobby watched him drag himself back up the stairs.

Dean was morose the entire morning, inconsolable; he practically had a raincloud hovering over his head. Bobby made the boys breakfast of extra-big pancakes, big enough that they covered the whole plate and he had to cut them with the pizza-cutter. Sam devoured his eagerly, but Dean just picked at his, barely eating half of it. The boys dressed and watched cartoons while Bobby looked over a purchasing agreement with a local dealership. He worked at his desk, a vantage point where he could still observe the boys, ensure they weren’t doing anything stupid.

Sam pulled another book down from the shelf – he had a small pile going, and Bobby didn’t have the heart to tell him to put them back. Sam opened the book and studied it carefully – Bobby would need to remember to hide away his more exotic Japanese woodcut prints somewhere safe.

“Why did Dad leave again?” Sam said, turning a page with careful hands.

Dean sat up and grinned. “’Cuz he was sick of starin’ at your ugly mug,” he said, and nudged Sam with his foot.

Sam looked at him, furious. “Nuh-uh!” he said, and hit Dean in the leg. Dean flopped on the couch dramatically, holding his leg.

“Ow-w-w!” he moaned. “You’re breakin’ my leg!”

“Nuh-uh!” Sam said. “Dean, nuh-uh!”

Bobby set his paperwork down. If he was going to play babysitter for a while, he was going to need some more food. Bobby went into the kitchen, and perused the cupboards and the slightly barren refrigerator, putting together a mental list.

“I need to go to the grocery store. Y’all wanna come with?”

“Sure,” Dean said, hopping to his feet, and Sam did the same. They bundled up and followed Bobby out to the truck, an old F-450 that Bobby had rigged up as a tow truck.

“It’s so _big,”_ Sam marveled. Dean helped him up into the truck, and then climbed in after him, then did up Sam’s seatbelt, and then his own. Sam started coughing, his breath fogging up the cold air, and Dean dug Sam’s inhaler out of his pocket and gave it to him while Bobby watched in the rearview mirror.

The road was slick with black ice, and the Supermart was a madhouse with last-minute Christmas shoppers. Dean kept one hand on the cart, one hand clutched in Sam’s mitten, and both of the boys looked around with huge eyes, like they were awestruck.

It was an almost-laughable sight. “Ain’t y’all ever been in a grocery store before?”

“Sure, we have,” Dean said. “I just usually got to the gas station or somethin’, though.”

Bobby watched them stare longingly at the toy aisle as they passed it, eyes lingering on the bikes. Sam ran his hand over the rubber handle of one, eyes shining.

Bobby tried to think of something nice he could do for them. He wished he was a millionaire. “Why don’t you two go pick out some cereal?” Bobby said.

Dean looked up at him. “What should we get?”

“Whatever you want,” Bobby said. Sam and Dean looked at each other with matching grins, and took off into the breakfast aisle. “But get some granola for me!”

“Okay!”

They disappeared, and Bobby started to fill the cart. He grabbed milk and eggs, yogurt, sour cream, white bread and peanut butter. After a few minutes, while Bobby was reviewing the lunchmeat selections, the boys returned, each holding a family-sized box of Lucky Charms, and one box of Healthy Crunch granola.

“Is… are these okay?” Dean said.

“Yup. Toss ‘em in.” The boys threw their cereal into the cart, looking overjoyed. “You kids want ham or turkey?”

Dean looked at Sam, who mouthed something silently, and then looked back at Bobby. “Turkey?”

Bobby threw in the turkey, and then some sodas, OJ (“Without pulp?” Dean had asked, almost shyly, and Bobby picked up a jug without pulp even though he preferred it), and then he grabbed fruit snacks and Pop-Tarts, and a box of cookies.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” Dean said suddenly, while Bobby was digging through the options for frozen chicken.

“Shit.” Bobby straightened, scanning through the crowd. The place was packed – it would take them a while to get through the obstacle course of people to get to the bathrooms. “Yeah. You remember where the registers are?”

Dean nodded. “Yessir.”

“The bathrooms are up there, right up at the front doors. I’ll be done soon, you wanna meet us up there?” And then, because he wasn’t sure, “You okay goin’ by yourself?”

“Yep!” Dean pulled his hand out of Sam’s grip, and moved his hand to the cart. “You stay with Uncle Bobby, hear?”

“Fine,” Sam said, very put-upon.

Dean walked off into the crowd, toward the front of the store. Suddenly anxious about being left alone with a seven-year-old, Bobby hunched down to his level.

“You wanna ride in the cart, Sammy?” Bobby said. Then, without waiting for an answer, he picked Sam up around the waist and heaved him up into the cart.

“’m not a little kid!” Sam said, siting down crisscross among the food. But then he pulled a small, paperback book out the pocket of his coat and opened to the middle.

While Sam’s nose was in his book, Bobby snuck a few things into the cart, hiding them under the groceries. Sam didn’t look up.

***

“Uncle Bobby?”

Bobby grunted, looking up from the account he was reviewing. Sam was standing in front of his desk. “Yep?”

Sam held something up in one fist. “I found this in the garage. Can I have it?”

“What is it?” Bobby held out a hand, and Sam dropped it into his palm. It was a metal bead, in the shape of a small face with horns sticking out of its head. “Sure. It’s all yours.” He gave it back to Sam, who shoved it in his pocket.

“Thanks!” he said, grinning a big, gap-toothed smile.

In the TV room, Bobby heard Dean’s voice: “Sammy.” Sam walked back into the room, and Bobby heard Dean say, “I told you not to bother him.”

“I just had to ask him somethin’, Dean! Jeez.”

It was after dinner when Bobby thought, _really_ thought about the fact that the next day was Christmas. It was Christmas tomorrow, and he had two little kids in the house.

Why hadn’t Bobby thought of it when they were at the goddamn store? Sam was sitting at the table, reading, and Bobby sat down beside him and said, “You get your brother anything for Christmas?”

Sam scowled, crossing his arms. “Dad was s’posed to take us to the store for each other, and he never did.”

“You never know,” Dean said from the counter, tearing into a sleeve of cookies. He placed two next to Sam at the table, and took two for himself. “Santa might bring somethin’!”

Sam fixed him with a stare more adult than any seven-year-old had any right to be. “There ain’t no presents comin’, and there ain’t no Santa.”

Dean frowned. “The heck you talkin’ about? ‘Course there’s a Santa!”

Sam rolled his eyes, and propped his book back up in front of him. “I know there’s no Santa, Dean. I read it in a book.”

Dean looked so frustrated and upset, Bobby couldn’t help himself.

“If you don’t go to bed early tonight, you’re not gonna get the presents that Uncle Bobby has for you,” he said.

Sam shoved one cookie in his mouth. “I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna go to bed early!” he said, and Dean started to laugh.

***

It was past midnight when Bobby went up to go to bed, and as he climbed the stairs, he could see the light glowing from under the boy’s bedroom door. He walked up to the door, intent to tell the boys to turn out the damn light already, but he could hear them talking.

“-…ere’s Uncle Bobby’s wife?”

Bobby froze, surprised.

“Waddaya mean?”

“There’s pictures of him and a pretty lady around. Ain’t you noticed?”

Dean was quiet a moment. Then he said, “That’s Aunt Karen.”

“Well… where is she?”

“Dad said… uh…”

Bobby felt his face warm. He wondered exactly what John had told them about Karen. His Karen, sweet Karen, trying so hard for a child and they found tumors in her womb instead. Cut down by cancer at 35. A fucking travesty. Ought to be a crime.

“She’s in Heaven,” Dean finished.

Bobby stood there like a deer in the headlights, like a dumb animal, unable to do anything but listen.

“With Mommy?”

Quiet, sad: “Yeah.”

A moment later Bobby heard a mattress creak, the pitter-patter of little feet on the floor, and the sound of Sam climbing into Dean’s bed.

“I’m aright, Sammy.”

“I miss her, too.”

“You remember her?”

“I think so.”

“That’s good.”

Bobby moved away from the door.

***

The red numbers on the clock told him it was almost 4:30, and Bobby needed to piss like a race horse. As he walked down the hall, he saw the light was still on in the boys’ room. “Dean…” He grumbled to himself. “Oughta know better.” He pushed the door open.

Dean was asleep on his back, in the USMC hoodie, an open comic book on his chest. Sam was curled up beside him, drooling into a pillow.

Bobby picked up the comic book and set in on the bedside table, next to the framed photo of the Winchester family that he knew Dean always carried with him.

Dean stirred. “Dad?” he croaked, his eyes cracking open.

“Shhh.” Bobby patted his hand, brushing against the big, chunky watch on Dean’s wrist. “Go to sleep.”

Dean let out a quiet sigh, and rolled over to face the wall. Bobby shut off the light.

***

The boys slept late on Christmas morning. Why wouldn’t they? Apparently, no one had believed in Santa in that family for a while. Bobby was about to wake them up around nine when he heard two pairs of feet stump down the stairs. Dean and Sam walked into the living room, both looking groggy.

“About time!” Bobby said. “You gonna open your presents, or what?”

The boys sat down on the rug beside the tree. “We have presents?” Sam said to Dean, quietly.

“’Course!” Dean said, and picked up a lumpy present wrapped in a cut-up paper bag. “Dad came back last night and left these for you.”

Sam took the gift, frowning. “Really? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“He had to go back to work. He had to leave real fast, and couldn’t stick around.”

“Well…” Sam got on his knees, looking around the tree. “Well, did he get you somethin’?”

Dean’s face went red. “I don’t need nothin’.”

Sam unwrapped the paper, and revealed his gifts. A big packet of Skittles, a king-sized chocolate bar, and five metal toy cars.

Bobby stilled. Had Dean shoplifted them while they were at the store? Bobby was torn – Dean was clearly trying to do right by his brother, but it was dangerous. It wasn’t right, raising a kid to believe that he had no choice but to steal. Bobby scratched his beard, trying to decide how to handle this. If to handle this. Shit, why was this on him? He was suddenly, blindly furious at John.

To his surprise, Sam looked up at Dean and scowled. “Dean. I ain’t stupid. I know you got these at Supermart. I saw you buyin’ ‘em.”

“I… no, I…” Dean groped for an excuse.

“Your daddy gave Dean some extra money,” Bobby said, and reached out to ruffle Dean’s hair. “Said to make sure he bought you somethin’ for Christmas since he had to work. So quit your damn complainin’.”

“Uh… yeah,” Dean said.

“Oh.” Sam looked at the chocolate bar, and then tore it open and broke it in half. “You want half?”

Dean nodded, grinning. “Yep.” He took the chocolate, and pointed at the cars. “You like ‘em?”

“Sure do,” Sam said, examining the cars closely. “They’re awesome. Wanna race ‘em later?”

“Course!”

Sam shoved a piece of chocolate in his mouth. “I got you somethin’, too.” Sam withdrew a small package from under the tree, wrapped in newspaper that looked like it had been foraged from the recycling bin. Dean’s eyes widened in surprise, and he took the gift and held it reverently.

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean opened the present, keeping the paper in one careful piece, and then let out a quiet gasp.

Bobby recognized it, the little metal amulet that Sam had asked him for the other day. Sam had also scrounged up a thin strip of leather, tied it, and wrapped it himself.

Bobby was impressed. Little scavengers, the both of them. Survivors.

“It’s so _cool!”_ Dean said, openly delighted. He pulled the necklace over his head, grinning like a little kid. Bobby corrected himself – he _was_ a little kid.

“Yeah? You like it?”

“It’s awesome. It’s the best.” Dean held the amulet in his hand, running his thumb over the face. “So cool.”

“Uncle Bobby, can we go race the cars?” Sam said.

“Well, hold on, now. I got y’all somethin’.” Bobby picked up the two gifts, hastily wrapped in discount wrapping paper covered in little snowmen with red scarves. The boys eagerly ripped into them, wrapping paper flying like shrapnel.

“Baseball gloves!” Dean cried, shoving his hand into the mitt. Sam immediately burst into tears, and held the mitt to his chest.

“Christ!” Bobby said. “What’s the matter?”

Dean grinned, giving Sam a one-armed hug. “He’s just happy, is all.”

Sam wiped his face. “Can w-we go puh-play with them?”

“Wait,” Dean said. “Give him the…” he said, and nodded to Bobby.

“Oh, yeah.” Sam sniffled, wiping his face again, and then he got to his feet and disappeared upstairs. He came back down holding a piece of paper that was rolled up and tied with a piece of string. He presented it to Bobby, looking triumphant.

Bobby felt strange, a little light-headed. He unrolled the paper, and studied it. It was a kid’s crayon drawing, a surprisingly detailed rendering of the group of them in front of Bobby’s house.

“See?” Sam said, hovering by his shoulder. He pointed at each little figure. “That’s you, and me, and Dean, and that’s your house, and your truck!”

“And Dad,” Dean said pointedly.

Sam rolled his eyes, and pointed to a less-detailed, black smudge of a stick figure. “And Dad.”

Bobby’s voice came out rough. “It’s… great. It’s great, Sammy. Thank you.”

Dean also had a present for him – a bag of potato chips that he had taken the time to wrap.

“You kids. C’mere,” Bobby said, holding out his arms. He pulled both of the boys into a hug. “Merry Christmas, you little grubs.”

“Merry Christmas,” the boys echoed.

“Can we go play catch?” Sam asked, pulling on Dean’s sweatshirt.

“Can we?” Dean said to Bobby.

“Y’all better go get dressed,” he said, and the boys took off up the stairs. They were back down in minute, in jeans and sweatshirts, and Bobby watched as Dean buttoned up Sam in his coat, and then himself. Bobby gave them their mitts.

“How’s it feel?” he said, as Dean pulled his on. 

Dean flexed his hand in the mitt. “Kinda stiff?”

“We’ll oil ‘em up tonight, bake ‘em in the oven. Makes ‘em softer.”

Dean and Sam followed him out into the salvage yard, and Bobby found a relatively open space. The grass was crunchy with frost and lumps of old snow, mostly ice now. Bobby slid his hand into his own glove, worn with age, held up the baseball. “You ready, Dean?”

“Yeah!” Dean moved into a crouch, read to dive for it.

Bobby tossed the ball to him, and was pleased when Dean caught it. Dean winged it back, the snap of the ball hitting Bobby’s mitt incredibly satisfying.

“Whoa!” Bobby said. “Hell of an arm you got. When you goin’ pro?”

“Umm… I dunno!” Dean said, laughing.

“All right, Sammy, there’s a grounder comin’ your way. You ready?”

“Uh-huh.” Sam mimicked Dean’s position, crouching low.

Bobby tossed the ball underhand so it rolled on the frozen grass. Sam knelt, and stopped the ball with his glove – it was a little too big, a little awkward on his hand, he didn’t quite know how to use it – and then he picked up the ball and threw it back. It bounced once, and Bobby got it in his mitt, then turned to face Dean.

“I’m gonna put some mustard on this one, so back up.”

Dean took a few steps back, grinning, and smacked his fist into his mitt. Bobby let the ball fly.

***

**Present time, present day.**

Late November brought shitty, sleety rain to Kansas City. Dean left the garage late on Friday, trying not to give in to the tug of irritation pulling on him. He’d wanted to leave way sooner, go home early for a change, give Garth more experience closing up alone, but it had gotten unusually busy, and his plans were foiled.

He was walking out to his car at just after 7PM when he saw the missed call from Cas. He dialed him back, jamming the car keys in driver side door lock.

“ _Hello?”_ Cas’ voice was a little too loud, a little too excited.

Dean grinned as he opened the door and slid into the driver seat. “You start without me?”

Cas huffed out a laugh. _“Perhaps. Balthazar and Raphael are here.”_

Dean scowled, felt it fold over his face unconsciously, and was glad Cas couldn’t see him. “Okay. Uh…”

“ _We’re having a drink. Do you know when you’ll be home?”_

“I just closed up. ‘Bout to head out now.”

“ _I called in an order to Great Wall. Would you mind picking it up? I got you sweet and sour chicken and egg foo yung.”_

Dean’s stomach rumbled. “Ooh, I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“ _Great,”_ Cas chuckled. “ _I’ll see you soon.”_

Dean drove to the local Chinese restaurant to grab their order, then headed home. It was pouring rain by the time he pulled up to the house, and he could see Balthazar and Raphael’s black Mercedes, shiny and smug, parked on the street. He wanted to sit in the car for a few more minutes and prepare himself, but the smell of the food was too enticing, and his hunger urged him out. He turned his collar up against the rain and grabbed the steaming plastic bags before heading in.

“Jesus,” he said, pushing the door open. “It’s cats and dogs out there.”

Raphael was sitting perched on one of the two arm chairs, holding court. Cas and Balthazar were on the sofa, Balthazar’s feet up on the cushions. There was snooty jazz playing on the speakers – probably Balthazar or Raphael’s choice since Cas preferred classical or grunge. He also caught a distinct whiff of cigarettes, which made him wrinkle his nose. He hated that smell. Balthazar was the likely culprit, but if Cas had snuck one, he’d really have it out with him later.

“Hello, gorgeous!” Balthazar said, and held up his glass in salute. 

“Dean,” Raphael said, in his absurdly deep voice. “How nice to see you.”

“Hey, guys,” Dean said, trying to smile. Cas got up and walked over to him, still in his suit pants and button-down. He took the bags from him, smiling apologetically.

“Thank you for getting this,” he said. Quieter, almost a whisper, he said, “Is this all right?” 

“’Sokay,” Dean murmured back.

“Smells good!” Balthazar said. “Starving to death over here!”

“Try to contain yourself,” Cas said, turning away from Dean. “I have your fried garbage.”

Dean felt suddenly very aware of the grease on his shirt, the sweat pitting out under his arms, his gritty work boots. He kicked off his shoes and said, “I’m gonna go change.” He jogged up the stairs without waiting for a response, and went straight into their bedroom, stripping out of his shirt. He caught a whiff of himself, and grimaced. He really needed a shower. But that would be weird, right? Showering while Cas and his friends waited downstairs?

Well, fuck them! It was his house; he could do what he wanted.

_Cas’ house,_ the traitorous part of his rumbled. _Not yours. Leech._

Dean hovered for a moment, wishing that Cas had followed him upstairs, knowing that he wouldn’t. The rain was pounding on the roof, and he listened for a long minute, until he heard a swell of laughter from the living room.

Shit, he was hungry. In a compromise, he washed his face and hands, skidded some deodorant under his arms, and then put on a clean tee-shirt and jeans before heading back downstairs.

He caught the end of Raphael’s story, his latest court disaster. “…-unbelievable. It turned out that he had a camera in the parking lot. They caught the man throwing himself down on the pavement well after the car passed.”

“Really,” Cas said.

“Open and shut. The judge threw the entire thing out.”

Balthazar started to cackle. “Ridiculous! Your poor client. You see? That’s why I have a dashcam. People get one look at a nice car, and they just see a chance at some easy money.”

“What’s up?” Dean said.

Cas looked at him. “Raphael was in court today.” Raphael, attorney at law, who championed divorcees and wrongful injury lawsuits. “It worked out in his favor.”

Dean looked at Raphael, who gave Dean a smirk. “Well, good for you, man,” Dean said. Then he leaned down and gave Cas a quick kiss on the temple. “You want a drink?”

Cas smiled up at him, and Dean could tell he was very pleased that Dean had kissed him like that, in front of his friends. “Yes. Please.”

Dean went into the kitchen, and he heard Balthazar say, “Why aren't you ever that nice to me?”

Raphael chuckled. “If you had that body, dear, I’d be as nice as you like.”

Balthazar burst out laughing, and Dean blushed. Fuck, he hated that. Hated how awkward and dumb he felt next to Cas’ rich, educated friends; hated that he knew they thought he and Cas were only together because of Dean’s looks. Made him feel like a dumb piece of meat.

“Don’t be an ass, Raphael,” Cas said, quietly and firmly, just over the music and probably not meant for Dean to hear.

“Oh, shush,” Balthazar said. “You know he’s only joking.”

Dean yanked the freezer open and pulled out Cas’ gin. He mixed Cas a gin and tonic, and then poured himself a shot of Jack and slammed it. His stomach was empty and the alcohol rushed into his head, and he took a moment to let himself enjoy the feeling before he grabbed a beer and returned to the living room.

“Thank you,” Cas said, sitting up and taking the drink. Since Balthazar was lounging across almost the entire rest of the couch, Dean sat in the other armchair, and picked up one of the boxes of food – sweet and sour chicken – and took a bite, watching Cas out of the corner of his eye.

Dean loved Cas like this. Relaxed, happy, eating out of cardboard. This was a rarity. He wished it was just the two of them, snuggled on the couch, eating shit food and drinking too much. Maybe he’d convince Cas to watch a horror flick with him.

Dean picked at the label on his beer. Yeah, that would have been nice.

“What are you up to these days, Dean?” Balthazar said, pulling Dean out of his little fantasy. “Are you still at the bar?”

“No. Not for a while,” Dean said, and sipped his beer. Not for years.

“Dean manages Star Auto Services,” Cas said, and Dean heard the bitchy note in his voice. “You know that.”

“That’s right! I forgot you were a mechanic.” Balthazar took a glug of his drink, and said, “Say, could you look at my Mercedes? Something’s going on with it, it’s making a horrible squealing noise when I start it.”

Dean started to say _Yes,_ anything to get out of the room, but Cas said, “I’m sure Dean would be happy to help you if you bring it to the garage.”

Raphael let out a rumbling laugh. “Relax, Castiel. We wouldn’t dream of trying to scheme services out of your lover.” Cas gave him a withering stare.

Dean gave Balthazar his best smile. “It’s probably just a loose belt. Bring it in this week – friends and family discount.” Then he stuffed his face with chicken so he could stop talking.

***

By 10PM Dean could feel his eyelids getting heavy, and he was getting ready to tap out.

“All right,” Balthazar said, beating him to it. He had polished off the better part of a fifth of vodka and several beers, and he struggled to get to his feet. “I’m s-s-sure Cassie and Dean-o have had more than enough of our nonsense.”

Raphael stood, and gave Cas a prim, one-armed hug. “Talk soon,” he said, and looked at Dean. “Dean. Always good to see you.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

Raphael pulled a weaving Balthazar out of the house and into the pouring rain, and Cas shut the door behind them. Dean gathered the garbage and took it into the kitchen to cram it all in the garbage can. He returned to the living room, where Cas had sat back down on the sofa, and plopped down next to him.

“Shit, I’m tired,” he said. “Crazy day.”

“Really?” Cas looked at him. “What happened?”

Dean shrugged. “Just busy. Friday nights are usually pretty tame, but it was wild. Couldn’t leave early like I wanted.” 

Cas looked at him, then considered the carpet. “I’m… sorry. I know you weren’t exactly thrilled to come home to the two of them.”

“’Sokay. It’s just.” Dean shook his head, and took a long slug of beer. “Just wanted to hang out with you tonight.”

Cas leaned down to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder, and wrapped an arm around Dean’s waist. “I love you,” he murmured, and Dean grinned.

“I’d love it if you’d turn this music off.”

Cas snorted out a laugh, then got up and went over to turn off the stereo.

“I…” Cas looked at him, frowning. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Dean’s insides iced over. That wasn’t good. “Uh… okay.” He felt Cas studying him, and Dean tried to hide the concern on his face. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Cas,” he said, and tried to laugh. “What is it? What, uh… What’d I do now, huh?” 

Cas shook his head. “No. No, nothing like that. I’m sorry. I… earlier today…” He stared at Dean for a moment, and then said, “Ugh. Never mind.” Cas picked up the dregs of his drink, mostly melted ice at this point, and tossed it back. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Oh, great.”

“It’s nothing bad. I’m just tired.” He sat back on the couch, and put his feet up on the coffee table. Dean grinned, and laid down to drop his head into Cas’ lap, closing his eyes. Cas ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, down his neck and shoulder, wandered them down his bare arm.

“You want to watch something?”

“Mmh. Just wanna rest my eyes for a few.”

“Uh-huh.” He heard Cas picking up a book, flipping it open to where a slip of paper marked his spot.

***

“Dean. It’s after midnight.”

“Huh?” Dean grunted. He was half-covered by a blanket that Cas had dragged over him while he dozed.

“Come on. Bedtime.”

Dean rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Okay.” He pushed the blanket off of himself, shivering, and wandered over to the door to make sure it was locked, checked the back door to see that the sliding door was locked, made sure the stove was off. Cas set the alarm system, let Dean double-check that he had set it correctly, and then followed Dean upstairs.

The master bedroom was just this side of cold. It was a long room, with high windows and a big, fancy dresser. The bed had a large, wooden headboard, and was covered with a heavy duvet in a grey cover.

Dean flopped onto the bed on his stomach, and let out a sigh. “Hmm… wanna fuck?” he said, and smiled languidly, wiggling his hips.

Cas rolled his eyes. “Pervert,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. “You’re practically unconscious.”

Dean snickered, and got back to his feet. “Gonna shower,” he said. He pulled off his shirt, and then dropped his pants. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and he saw Cas’ eyes running over him. He walked slowly into the master bathroom, stretching his arms over his head, letting Cas take a good, long look.

The en-suite was all black and white tile, with an old-style sink and a standing shower. Dean turned on the water good and hot, and climbed in. He let the water pound his stiff shoulder and neck, then shampooed and soaped up quickly, hoping Cas would take the bait and join him. He ran a hand down his stomach and squeezed his cock, gave himself a slow stroke.

The shower door opened, and he felt a hand sliding up his back. He turned to see Cas climbing in, latching the glass door behind him.

“’Bout time,” Dean said, leaning back and rinsing the last of the shampoo out of his hair. Cas’ body was tanned and toned and sexy, his cock already filling with anticipation.

“Ass,” Cas murmured, and kissed him under the hot spray. Cas’ lips were like silk, his body warm and solid, and Dean’s cock was thick and heavy pressed against Cas’ thigh. “You’re getting hard already. Were you touching yourself?”

“A little,” Dean breathed. “Want you.” He shoved his lips back against Cas’ in a sloppy kiss. The water made their bodies slick, and Cas easily slid a strong thigh between Dean’s legs. “Nnnggh… Cas…”

“You want it?” Cas said. Dean nodded. “You’d better work for it, then.”

Dean let out a quiet laugh. “Fuckin’ tease,” he mumbled, and then carefully dropped to his knees.

“Oh, Dean. Would you?” Cas said, his hand going to Dean’s wet hair. Dean licked up the length of Cas’ stiffening cock, and then pulled him into his mouth. Cas leaned against the wall and squeezed Dean’s hair hard, making Dean moan. Dean pulled him deep into his throat, swallowing around him, felt Cas’ thighs tense under his hands. “Dean! Yes-s-s…”

Dean lost himself in the rhythm, bobbing up and down on Cas’ cock, Cas moaning and humming quietly above him, the feel of water pounding down on him. “Oh, God. Dean.” Dean reached up to massage Cas’ balls, found them getting tight against his body, and quickened his efforts. Cas gasped, his cock twitching hard in Dean’s mouth. “Ah! I’m – _mmh –_ close!” Dean sucked hard, and Cas came in his mouth. Dean swallowed his cum, salty and bitter, wanting everything Cas could give him.

Dean pulled back, feeling his lips buzzing, eyelids fluttering under the hot water. His cock was rock hard, bobbing up against his stomach. Cas crouched own and helped him to his feet. His legs were a little weak, and he leaned on Cas heavily.

“Dean. _Dean.”_ Cas kissed him, pushed him against the wall. “Sweetheart. You need to cum.”

“Y-Yeah,” Dean heard himself say, practically whimpered. “Please, Cas… c’mon…”

Cas was all business, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s cock and pumping, a little slow at first, and then quick, like he knew exactly how bad Dean wanted to get off.

“Oooh, _fuck,”_ Dean gritted out. He pressed his face into Cas’ wet shoulder, right under the spray. His arms went around Cas, held him tight. “Good… ‘sgood…” Cas’ free hand slid down Dean’s spine, rested for a moment at the small of his back, pressing and massaging, and then worked slowly down to the cleft of his ass. “Yeah, yeah, Cas, want it… please…” Cas pushed two fingers down against Dean’s hole, teasing firmly, making Dean jump, and then he pushed his middle finger inside. “Fuck… fuck… _fuck… Cas!”_ Dean choked out, and started to cum. Cas pumped his cock through his orgasm, fucking him with his finger, until Dean slumped against the wall. “Oh, _fuh-huh-huck…”_

Cas carefully withdrew his fingers, and wrapped his arm around Dean’s waist, practically propping him up. “Okay…?” he murmured into Dean’s hair.

Dean moved to kiss Cas again, and Cas smiled against his lips. “I’m… uh…” Dean got his bearings, standing straight up. “Uh… heh. Bedtime.” He was so tired; he was almost asleep on his feet.

“Go on,” Cas said, running a hand down his arm. “I’ll join you shortly.”

Dean pushed the door open, braced against the chilly air outside the shower, and shut the door behind him. He wrapped a towel around his waist and brushed his teeth while Cas washed up.

The bedroom had been nice and cool before, but now it was fucking freezing. Dean dried off quickly, and then hustled into sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. He climbed into bed, directly in the middle, and folded the comforter and the extra blanket at the foot of the bed over himself. He checked that his alarm was set for 7AM, and laid comfortably on his back.

He woke to Cas pulling the blankets up and crawling in, his weight on the bed tilting Dean to the side. “Come on, you hog. Shove over,” he whispered. Dean grunted, and instead of moving away, wrapped his arms around Cas’ body. He felt Cas pulling up his shirt a little, his cool hand against his skin, his thumb moving back and forth like a windshield wiper, like a hypnotist’s watch. He slept.

***

Dean woke three hours later, sweating his balls off. Cas had apparently cranked the heat up to somewhere in the neighborhood of 90, and he was snoozing away without a care in the world. Dean yanked his shirt off and threw it over toward the hamper, then rolled away from Cas, kicking the blankets off.

“Fuck,” he mumbled. He hadn’t drunk enough to be hungover, but he felt sluggish and had a headache from lack of sleep. He turned his pillow over to the cool side, and went back to sleep until he woke again when his alarm started blaring at seven. Dean reached up and shut it off quickly, but Cas was already shifting beside him.

“Dean, what the hell?” he grumbled. He was always so grouchy in the morning. “ _Why?”_

“Sorry,” Dean said. He climbed out of bed, rubbing the grit out of his eyes, and went into the bathroom. He washed his face and brushed his teeth, and wet his hair down and ran a comb through it, then put a little gel in so it wouldn’t dry too ugly. He went back into the bedroom, and Cas was sitting up in bed, staring at him blearily. “Gotta turn the light on,” Dean said. “Real quick.” He clicked on the bedside lamp, and Cas winced.

“Are you working?” Cas said. “I thought you had today off.”

“Yeah. Gotta go in for a few hours, open the place.” Dean shucked off his sweat pants and pulled on briefs and clean jeans.

“I don’t understand why you’re open on Saturdays at all,” Cas mumbled. “None of the other local places are.”

“Some of them are,” Dean said, pulling on a black tee-shirt shirt. “Gotta compete. You know?”

Cas sighed, blinking in the dim light. “You need a vacation.” 

“Yeah, well. You know it’s gonna be worse if I buy the place.” Dean grabbed a red and black flannel out of the closet, and tugged it on over his tee-shirt.

“When you own the business, all of the time you put in will be worth it,” Cas said, quietly, and Dean wondered if he was trying to convince himself.

Vaguely stung, Dean said, “It’s not worth it now? I manage the place, and there’s just a few of us on staff right now, so…” He felt irritable from lack of sleep, and it was too hot in the room. Cas was watching him silently, and Dean sat down on the bed and yanked on his socks. “I’m just workin’ my ass off, you know? We always get busy this time of the year. Once I get Garth trained up, I’ll be able to take more time off. I don’t.” He stopped himself. Fuck, he didn’t want to fight. “I dunno what to tell you.” He got up and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Downstairs was cold, and it was still raining outside. Dean turned on the coffee pot, and made toast with peanut butter while the pot gurgled away. He ate his toast standing up, watching the pot fill, and chased it was a mouthful of Cas’ oat milk, grimacing at the taste. He poured the coffee straight into the thermos, and checked his watch. Almost 7:30 – time to leave.

He turned, and Cas was standing in the kitchen, wrapped in his thick, blue robe. His hair was a mess, and his face was lined and tired.

“Hey.” Cas ran a hand up Dean’s arm, squeezed his bicep. “Don’t be angry with me.”

“’M not,” Dean said, abashed. “Sorry. I’m just tired, really. Up too late, didn’t sleep good at all.”

“I know.” Cas took Dean’s hand, and kissed his palm. “Are you sure you have to go in?”

“Yeah. Gotta open.” Dean touched Cas’ face, scraped a thumb over his stubble.

“Do you have a lunch?”

“Nah. I’ll be home by noon. One, tops.”

“All right.” Cas pulled him in for a quick kiss, and Dean headed out.

***

Dean had completely forgotten about Cas’ ominous _We-need-to-talk_ from the night before, until he walked into the house that evening. Cas was sat on the couch with a pile of assignments on his lap, in jeans and a preppy sweater. Cas looked up as Dean stomped in, hair and shoulders wet from the rain that had been pouring since the night before. Cas frowned deeply, and looked at the clock. It was after six.

“Wow,” Cas said.

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Dean kicked his boots off, and dropped his keys and wallet on the table inside the door. “Fuckin’ slammed all day. And a goddamn insurance company dicked us around on the photos we sent in of this Audi that ran over a blown semi tire on the freeway. We had to retake and resend them _four fuckin’ times._ ” He shook his head, and slumped down onto the sofa. “Stick a fork in me.”

Cas reached out and squeezed his thigh. “Poor thing. Did you eat?”

“Nah. I’m starved.”

“I can make something?”

Dean barked out a laugh. “Hell, no. I’ll cook.”

Cas chuckled. “I can boil water, you know. Maybe some pasta?”

“Hmm.” Dean put his hands behind his head. “Only if you let me taste everything.”

“All right. Let me just finish this, I’m almost done.” Cas pulled his legs on to the couch, sitting crisscross with the papers on his lap.

“Finals?”

Cas grinned at him. “Not yet. A few more weeks of class… then finals.” He held up one paper with a _40%_ scrawled in angry red on top. “This is the final paper on Chaucer. They can choose their own text for their actual final paper.”

“Forty percent? Shit!” Dean laughed. “You hard-ass.”

“Well.” Cas shrugged, and put the paper at the bottom of the stack. “This class is mostly majors; they should be doing better.”

Cas was one of the associate professors of English at Eastern Kansas College. Apparently, Dean had learned, the “associate” title was important, since Cas had gone from “adjunct,” to “assistant,” to “associate” professor a few years ago when some old fart retired, and he would someday be a “true” professor. When Dean had met him, he’d been an English professor at Eisenhower Community College in south Kansas City, only apparently that wasn’t _really_ a professor position? So, an English _teacher._

Dean didn’t get it. He’d always thought anyone teaching college classes was a professor. But, whatever. He didn’t have room in his brain for all that bullshit. Cas had made tenure, and that was a pretty big deal (most especially to his fascist parents), and Dean was proud of him.

Dean watched him scratch away at his papers, and then picked up Cas’ abandoned novel from the night before. _Crime and Punishment,_ Dostoevsky. _Snob,_ Dean thought fondly. He opened to the first chapter, careful not to disturb Cas’ bookmark.

Cas finished up with his papers, and stacked them nice and neat in his red folder, then set the folder on the coffee table. “Done.”

“Hey, uh… last night,” Dean said, turning on the couch so he was face Cas. “You said you had somethin’ you needed to talk to me about.”

“Oh.” Cas’ face darkened. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

Dean swallowed, something bubbling in him, something like fear.

“Um.” Cas ran a hand through his hair, frowning. “Maybe we should eat first.”

“Fuck, Cas, just tell me,” Dean said urgently.

Cas looked at him, and sighed. “I received a phone call yesterday. From… Kate Milligan.”

Dean felt his entire body tense. Heat rushed into his face.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, fighting to keep his voice even. “Is Dad…” Dean’s voice cut off, and he cleared his throat. “Is my Dad okay?”

“Yes,” Cas said.

“Then, uh… Then what’d she want?”

“She wanted…” Cas leaned his head sideways against the back of the couch. “She wanted to invite us to spend Christmas with them.

Dean frowned. “There? In fuckin’ Minnesota?”

Cas nodded. He spoke slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully, trying not to piss Dean off or something. “She was… concerned… because whenever she invited you before, you told her you weren’t interested. And that… you didn’t want to put me through it. I believe she wanted me to try to… convince you.” Dean watched him bite his lip. “Um… she says your father wants to see you.”

Dean stared at him, and then looked at the coffee table. “That’d be news to me. Dad ain’t called in a long time.”

“Has she invited you before?”

Dean snorted. “Once. Back when Dad first moved in with her. It was half-assed as hell. And obviously Dad couldn’t call and invite us himself.” Dean hadn’t heard from his father in months. He ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth. “What’d you tell her?”

“Nothing,” Cas said. “Just that I’d talk to you about it.”

Dean scoffed. “You shoulda told her to fuck off.” Cas didn’t respond, and Dean got to his feet. “I gotta. I. I got some work to do.”

“Do you want me to make dinner?”

“Not hungry.” Dean walked over to the office, stopping in the kitchen to grab a beer out of the fridge. He sat down at the computer and pulled up his work email to see if the insurance company accepted his last round of photos.

***

Nine beers and four shots of Jack later, Dean dragged himself up the stairs, barely able to stand. He could see Cas sitting on the couch, pointedly ignoring him. His face was twisted with a scowl as he stared at his book, not actually reading.

Dean was seeing double, his stomach flip-flopping. The room started to spin as he stripped out of his clothes and dropped them on the ground. He struggled to pull on his sweatpants from the night before, and then he dropped onto the bed, on top of the blankets. He passed out hard, lights on, his head not even on the pillow.

_The room is burning. Fire erupts up from the tree, the curtains floating up and flames lick the ceiling. Mommy is screaming and Dad is yelling at him and Dean doesn’t even think, he wraps his arms around Sammy and lifts him up and runs out of the house with him, smoke burning his eyes and his lungs, coughing and sputtering and crying._

_The night swallows him, grass cold and wet under his feet, and Sammy is crying and crying in his ear, and Dean stares up at the house as the windows in the living room burst out,_ Where are they? Where are they? Please God please God please God, _and then Dad finally runs out of the house, Mommy wrapped up in a blanket in his arms, and he sets her down in the wet grass and Dean can see her burned dress and her hair is gone or grey like burned grass and her face is raw meat_

Dean woke in darkness. The room tilted around him, and his eyes struggled to focus. The ceiling fan was on, cold wind in his face like the touch of a ghost. He felt Cas’ weight in the bed beside him, and Dean turned on his side to look at the clock – almost 2:30.

Something bad was about to happen. Dean breathed slowly through his nose as he sat up, and then he fell out of the bed in a hurry, almost broke the bathroom door down in his haste to get to the toilet. He dropped to his knees in front of the bowl and vomited everything he’d had that night, beer and liquor burning its way back up his throat like hydrochloric acid. He heaved and heaved, until he thought he was going to pass out right there on the floor, and then it finally petered off.

“Oh, fuck… oh, goddamn…” Dean panted, and spat a few times into the disgusting water. He waited, praying for it to be done, and when nothing else happened, he flushed the toilet. _Fuck,_ he hated the smell of puke. Puke and liquor and cigarettes and burning hair, the smells of his childhood.

He climbed to his feet, holding on to the sink as he stood, knees knocking together, weak and shaky and sick. He gulped some water from the tap, swished and spat. Sweat was dripping off of him, and he started the shower. He dropped his sweatpants and got under the water.

The dream came back to him, and he pressed a hand to his mouth to muffle a sob that tried to burst out of him. He tried to breathe deep, quietly. His stomach wrenched, and he bent over and heaved, bracing his hands on the wall, but he didn’t have anything left in his gut. He dry-heaved a little more, nothing but drool coming out of his mouth. He spat on the floor, then soaped up his pits and crotch, rinsed, and shut off the water.

Dean toweled off, and then carefully brushed his teeth and picked up his sweatpants. He cringed at the thought of pulling them back on, so he went to the bedroom, shut off the bathroom light, and moved through the darkness to the dresser. He rooted around for a fresh tee-shirt and cotton shorts (they felt like a pair of Cas’ boxers), and put them on, then slowly worked his way back to the bed. He climbed in carefully – his head hurt, his throat was still burning, and his knees were screaming at him for abusing them on the bathroom floor.

Beside him, Cas moved. “Had a few tonight?” he said, and Dean could hear the irritation in his voice.

Dean groaned, and scrubbed at his face. “Urrgh… I know… stupid-ass thing to do.” He pulled the blankets over his waist, and faced away from Cas in the bed.

A moment later, softly, Cas said, “I’m sorry. I… are you all right?”

Dean laid there for a moment, staring at the clock. 3:07AM. “I… was havin’ that… that dream,” he whispered. “Horrible fuckin’ dream. Dad bringin’ Mom outta the house. That night. Her… fuck.” _Raw meat face raw meat face raw meat face._ Dean took a deep breath and blew it out.

Cas’ weight shifted behind him, and he felt Cas’ arm slide around his body to hold him. “Oh, Dean.”

“I’m aright. I’m aright.” Dean shook his head, and squeezed Cas’ hand where it was resting on his chest. “Sorry, Cas. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t’a had so much to fuckin’ drink. Goddammit.” He was still fucking drunk, he could feel it. The world was tilting around and tears were starting to leak out of his eyes, soaking the pillow. “I d-don’t know what to do.”

Cas’ lips were soft against the back of his neck. “It’s all right.” One hand was moving up and down Dean’s back, massaging gently, back and forth. “I’ve got you. Just go to sleep… everything will be better in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Alcohol abuse, anxiety, child neglect issues


	2. something bad.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tread carefully, we can all be hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See bottom of the chapter for TW. 
> 
> XOXO, Rosemary

_Last night, it came as a picture  
_ _With a good reason, a warning sign  
_ _This place is void of all passion  
_ _If you can imagine, it's easy if you try  
  
_ _Believe me, I failed this effort  
_ _I wrote a reminder this wasn't a vision_  
_This time, where are you Houston?  
_ _Is somebody out there? Will somebody listen?_

**19 years ago.**

Dean was thirteen, sore from growing pains in his legs, restless and bored cooped up in the tiny apartment. Dad’s wandering itch was scratched for the moment, and they had a month-to-month lease on a first-floor shoebox in a particularly run-down tourist stop on the Oregon coast.

But, whatever. Anything was better than a one-room hotel. They were close to the beach, a dreary, grey stretch of sand constantly battered by frigid wind and rain, and he and Sam could walk there easy if they needed to run around. It was Christmas eve, and there were presents (actual presents!) from Dad in the corner. They were wrapped in the funny pages, and stacked under the window.

There was no tree, of course. They would never have a tree again. But that was okay. The tree wasn’t important, not really, and there was a potted, yellowing fern in the window that had been left by a previous tenant, so Dean told Sam to think of that as their Christmas tree (quietly, after Dad had passed out).

The fragile peace made Dean uneasy. It was like the scary sense of calm in the minutes before the world was hit with a thunderstorm, when something electric was in the air. It almost made it harder for him to relax and enjoy it; he kept expecting Dad to wake them up one morning and tell them to pack it up, they were leaving in five minutes. Or for Sam and Dad to get into it over dinner one night, for Sam to hurl a plate at the wall, for Dad to storm out the apartment and disappear for a week, for Dean to fuck up somehow, buy the wrong thing at the store, forget to lock the window, for Dad to tear into him, hit him, maybe undo his belt.

Waiting for something to happen. It made him panic sometimes, so much that sometimes he couldn’t sleep, or he’d wake up in a cold sweat and have to walk around the apartment, listening at Dad’s door to see if he was still here. Listen to make sure he was still breathing.

It was also embarrassing as hell, and Dean was grateful that no one seemed to notice. He shifted on the couch, glancing at Sam, who wasn’t even paying attention to the TV, but was face-first in a book. Then he looked back at his father, who was sat at the spindly kitchen table, reading the paper.

Dean felt like a fucking freak. Can’t have a good time when everyone else was clearly doing fine.

The phone rang, the sudden noise of it making Dean jump. Dean glanced at Dad, who nodded, before getting up to answer it. The only phone in the apartment was plugged in the kitchen, an old one with a long, curly-cue cord. Dean grabbed the faded yellow handset.

“Hullo?”

A gruff, familiar voice was on the other end. “ _Is that Dean?”_

“Bobby, hey!” Dean said.

“Bobby?” Sam said, and scrambled off the couch to come stand by the phone, his book forgotten. Dean tilted the handset so that he and Sam could both get an ear in.

“ _How are y’all doin’ out there?”_

“Oregon sucks,” Dean said, and he and Sam giggled.

“It’s super lame,” Sam added. “The beach is freezing! And you can’t swim in the water ‘cuz of the, um, undertow.”

“There’s an arcade, though,” Dean said quickly. “And candy shops and stuff, for the tourists. It ain’t all bad.” He didn’t want Bobby worrying too much.

“ _Sam, you get my presents in the mail?”_

“Yeah!” Sam said, looking over to their little Christmas pile, where the gifts from Bobby were set wrapped in butcher paper. “We got ‘em and put ‘em with the others.”

“ _Great. Was worried you’d all move on before they arrived. Now, watcha readin’?”_ Bobby said.

“ _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,”_ Sam recited, like he’d had the title ready.

Dad snorted out a quiet laugh from his spot at the table. Dean watched as he stood up, picking up his pack of cigarettes, and walked outsides to the little patch of concrete that functioned as a front step. One of the kitchen chairs was perched on it, and Dad sat down, leaving the door open. Cold ocean air wafted inside through the screen door, bringing the scent of his Marlboros with it.

“ _Huck Finn? Ain’t that awful long?”_

“Yeah!” Sam said. “It’s real long. It’s good.”

“ _How’s school?”_

“Fine,” Sam said. “Boring. I already learned most of this stuff at my old school.”

“ _Back in Omaha?”_

“Yeah.”

Dean let Sam take control of the phone as he chattered on with Bobby about school, the other kids, the neighborhood, his basketball team, how he couldn’t wait for soccer because that’s what he really wanted to play. Finally, Bobby said, “ _Sam, can you gimme over to Dean? I need to talk to him.”_

“Okay. Bye, Bobby!” Sam said, and he passed the phone back to Dean. Dean watched him walk back to the sofa, watched him flop back onto the cushions. Dean turned away from Sam, pulling the phone as close to the corner as he could, trying to get some modicum of privacy, eager to talk to Bobby alone.

“Hey, Sam’s gone,” he said. “What’s up?”

“ _How are you all doin’_ , _Dean?”_ Bobby said. _“Really.”_

“Um…” Dean pulled the phone through the bedroom door, and he shut it partway, but no one was listening regardless. He sat down on the carpet. “We’re doin’ okay. We’re doin’ good.” 

“ _Mm-hmm. How’s your daddy?”_

“He’s, um. He’s doin’ good. He’s workin’, and we ain’t moved in a few months. Dad says we’ll probably stay here for a while, least through the end of the school year, ya know, for Sam.”

School didn’t matter much to Dean. He was too far behind, always, no matter where they went. Sam took to school like a fish to water, but Dean was slower, fuzzy-headed when it came to that stuff, was never as good at reading or math as Sam was. His teachers didn’t have the time or the wherewithal to try to catch him up, and sitting in the back not understanding a damn thing on the board always pissed him off, made him act like an asshole in class. Sometimes he didn’t bother going at all. What was the point? He couldn’t wait until he was sixteen so he could get a job, do something useful with his time. By the time the school realized he’d blown off class for half a month, they were always in the wind again.

“ _He been around a lot?”_

“Yessir,” Dean said. “And he and Sammy ain’t hardly been at it at all.”

“ _Good,”_ Bobby said, sounding relieved. “ _Good. How’s this apartment you’re in?”_

“It’s all right. I mean, Sammy and I have our own bedroom. And there’s a real kitchen, so we aren’t just livin’ on fast food and stuff. And we’ve got cable.” He pushed his finger through the hole in the knee of his jeans. “But it’s kinda moldy, especially the bathroom. And the carpet’s got a bunch of wet spots. Nothin’ ever really dries all the way.”

Bobby laughed a little. “ _Yeah, that sounds like the Oregon coast. There enough food?”_

“Yessir,” Dean droned. “We’re fine. Really.”

Bobby sighed. “ _Are_ you _doin’ all right?”_

For reasons Dean couldn’t quite understand, the question brought up a lump in his throat. “I’m. Uh.” He cleared his throat. “I’m good, Bobby.”

Bobby was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “ _What’s botherin’ you, boy?”_

Dean shook his head, swallowing hard. “Nothin’. That’s just it. There’s nothin’. I’m just… uh-uhm.” He rubbed his eyes hard. So stupid. “I’m just, just… _worried._ I don’t know. It’s dumb. It’s bullshit.”

“ _You worried about your daddy?”_

“Y-Yeah. I guess.”

“ _Worried he’s gonna leave? That somethin’s gonna happen?”_

_I’m fine. It’s fine. We’re fine._ But slowly, Dean bit out, “Just feel like… s-something bad’s gonna happen.” Tears burned in his eyes, and he wiped them on the hem of his tee-shirt.

“ _Nothin’ bad’s gonna happen!”_ Bobby said, stricken.

But Bobby was wrong, because something bad _had_ happened, and that’s why they were there in the first place. That was the reason for everything, wasn’t it? Something bad always happened.

And then Bobby said, “ _You know, even if something does happen, you’ll be fine. We’ll handle it. You can always call me, Dean. Always. Okay?”_

But Bobby wasn’t there, not really. Bobby was five-hundred, a thousand, two-thousand miles away. If something happened, Dean would be the one who had to handle it. It would all fall to him. It always fell to him.

They’d been in Nebraska a few months ago. Early summer, still going to school but with minds turned toward summer. One night, a Thursday, Dad didn’t come home for dinner. And then he wasn’t home before they went to bed, wasn’t home when they left for school the next morning, wasn’t home when they went to bed Friday night, and still wasn’t home lunchtime on Saturday. And Dean was worried. Dad didn’t usually go that long without calling them, letting them know he was okay. Making sure _they_ were okay. Dean remembered taking stock of what was in the fridge, in the cupboards, and getting very worried about how barren it was. He counted out the emergency cash that was still left in the jar on the counter – only $11. A week passed, and nothing from Dad. His work site called, left a message saying not to bother coming in again since he couldn’t be bothered to show up. Dean remembered telling Sam to quit his damn whining when he turned up his nose at the last of the canned soup. Dean started skipping lunch, halving his dinner. Three more days passed. Dean spent the last of the cash on bread, peanut butter, and clearance lunch meat. And finally, after two weeks, Dad stumbled in the door, went straight to bed, passed out while Sam was screaming his head off at him – _Where the hell were you? Where the hell_ were _you? We almost called the fucking police! Do you hear me, you drunk, piece of shit?_ His nine-year-old brother, swearing at his Dad as he slept in his liquor-soaked stupor. Dean had dug Dad’s wallet out of his coat pocket, and, thank fuckin’ God, there were two twenties and two tens folded inside. He grabbed Sam’s hand and pulled him, still screaming and cursing, out of the apartment, took him straight to McDonalds and bought him whatever he wanted off the menu before they went to the grocery store.

Dean didn’t tell Bobby that, though. Instead, he said, “Okay. Thanks, Bobby.” He wiped his eyes again. Despite it all, talking to Bobby still made him feel better, like some black tar was scooped out of him, and he could breathe again.

The bedroom door opened, and a shadow fell over him. Dean looked up quickly; Dad was standing over him, frowning.

“Bobby?” he said, and Dean nodded.

“ _That your daddy?”_ Bobby said.

“Yeah.”

“ _Can I talk to him?”_

“Yeah. Bye, Bobby.” Dean climbed to his feet and held the phone out. Dad took it, and Dean snuck past him, smarting, hoping Dad hadn’t heard him crying like a damn girl.

***

Dean was back in his spot on the ratty couch, remote balance on his chest. Sam’s nose was back in his book. Dad finished his private conversation with Bobby, whatever they were talking about, and hung up, went back to his spot at the table. It was freezing cold in the apartment, and Dean put on a sweatshirt.

“Hey,” Dad said, suddenly. “Let’s go see a movie.”

Sam looked up from his book in shock. “What?”

“Really, Dad?” Dean said, barely able to contain his excitement.

Dad picked up his newspaper, and held it out to Dean. “Pick something out.”

Dean almost tore the newspaper in his eagerness. He flipped to the Showings page, and he and Sam read through them quickly. He was briefly worried – what if nothing was playing on Christmas eve? But there was plenty. Dean was hoping for a scary movie, or a sci-fi flick. Sam wanted to see a stupid-ass comedy. They compromised on an action movie.

Dean showed Dad their selection, and he read over the paper. “All right, better get your shoes on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Dean crammed his feet into his shoes (he’d grown out of them already but was hesitant to tell Dad). He gave Sam his coat and pulled on his own, and they followed Dad out to the car. It was super cold out, and the beach wind whipped their hair and coats around, made Dean squint.

“Can I have the front seat?” Sam said, and Dean was so happy that he didn’t even fight him for it. He climbed into the back, already thinking that maybe they could take advantage of Dad’s good mood, maybe they could get popcorn. Dean had a crumbled ten-dollar bill in his pocket and thought that he could maybe get some candy or a soda, he wouldn’t even mind sharing with Sam.

“Play some AC/DC, Sammy!” Dean said.

“Fi-i-ine,” Sam said. He rifled through Dad’s box of tapes until he found the right one, and slid it into the tape deck. Dad started the car and turned on the heat, and Dean drummed on his legs while the heat defogged the windows. 

A few minutes later and the car was heated up fully, almost to the point of it being uncomfortable. Dean looked at the clock on the dash. Dad was just sitting there, staring out the window, his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. Sam looked back at Dean.

“The movie starts in twenty minutes,” Sam said. “We’re gonna be late.”

“Are you all right, Dad?” Dean said.

Dad sat there for another minute, starting out the window, his eyes a million miles away. And then it was like the air going out of a balloon; his head lowered, and his shoulders slumped, and all of his energy just went out. His hand dropped to the keys, and he turned off the engine.

“No movie today,” he said. “Let’s go tomorrow instead.”

“Dad…” Dean said, quietly. “It’s Christmas tomorrow, everything’ll be-…”

“Don’t argue with me,” Dad ordered, and Dean sat back in his seat.

“Yessir,” he whispered.

Sam was breathing hard, his face turning blotchy red. “This…” he said, and then he swelled up like an explosion. “This is _bullshit!_ ” he screamed, his voice breaking.

“What the hell did you just say to me?” Dad said. Sam was already kicking the door open and hopping out on to the pavement.

“I hate you!” Sam screamed. “I knew it, I knew this was gonna happen! You always ruin _everything!_ ”

Dad scrambled out of the car after him. “I oughta blister your hide for talkin’ to me like that!”

“Do it! I hate you anyway!”

They disappeared back into the apartment, but Dean didn’t move. He sat in the car until the cold seeped in, settling over him like a wet blanket. Slowly, he climbed out of the car, and went into the apartment to pull Dad and Sam away from each other’s throats.

***

**Six years ago.**

Castiel was teaching an evening class at Dwight D. Eisenhower Community College once a week. The first day of the fall quarter was more of the same: a cross section of 18- or 19-year-old kids fresh out of high school who looked bored and tired, and maybe a little stoned; and older students on a spread from their late twenties to early fifties, who wore focused, steely expressions, here to get it done and move on.

One student in particular had caught Castiel’s attention. A man, maybe in his early twenties, was sitting in the front row, had walked in and sat down right in the middle with a weird, almost-grimace on his face, like he was walking to an execution. He was very handsome, with dark-blond hair, youthful freckles across the bridge of his nose, bright green eyes like beacons. Castiel busied himself with the papers on his desk, wishing the man had sat off to the side, somewhere less distracting.

At five on the dot, Castiel stood up from his desk. “Good evening, everyone. Welcome to Pre-1800 British Lit.” He picked up the syllabi, and began handing them out. “You should have received this in your email already, but please take a hard copy if you’d like as well.”

The green-eyed man let out a quiet gasp, and closed his notebook. Then he stood up quickly, his chair scraping on the linoleum, and every head in the room turned to him.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m… I’m in the wrong class,” he muttered, gathering his things.

“Where are you supposed to be?” Castiel said.

“Uh…” The man blushed, his shoulders rising defensively. “Uh, the… math class? With Cox?”

That was the most basic of the basic, essentially remedial math. Castiel waved him to the open door, and pointed to the opposite side. “Across the hall.”

“Thanks,” the man said, and hurried over to the other classroom.

Castiel looked back at the forty-odd students in the classroom. “As I was saying. Please take a hard copy of the syllabus if you need it.”

The class dragged a bit. Castiel didn’t care for evening classes; everyone was tired, people struggled to pay attention, some even fought to stay awake. And Pre-1800 literature didn’t exactly have his students frothing with excitement. The students filed out quickly at 8PM – Castiel liked to end his classes promptly on time. People were eager to get home, and a few were grumbling about going in to work. Castiel sat at the desk for a moment, then rolled his shoulders and stretched his back. He picked up his books and his laptop, and slid them into his bag, then dug around for his Marlboro reds.

“Hey!” A voice from the door. Castiel looked; the young man who had left for the math class was standing there.

“Hello,” Castiel said.

“Hey, man, I’m sorry ‘bout earlier,” the man said.

“Oh,” Castiel said, and shook his head. “No. It’s not a problem, Mister…?”

“Winchester,” the man said, and stepped into the room. “Dean Winchester.”

“Castiel Shurley,” he said, and held out his hand. Dean shook it, his palm warm and callused. Castiel gave him a long, careful look up and down, and was pleased when Dean held his gaze and gave him a look up and down in return.

“So, I’ll see you around,” Dean said, releasing his hand.

“I’m certain you will,” Castiel said, and Dean left the room, grinning over his shoulder.

Luckily enough, it seemed that his class and the math class ran on the same schedule. When he opened the door to release his students out into the night, he would often catch a glimpse as the other class did the same. Sometimes Dean would catch his eye, grin at him, waggle his eyebrows almost comically, or give him the occasional, “Hey, Cas.”

_Cas._ Castiel liked that. He didn’t usually allow nicknames – they inevitably turned to _Cassie,_ or _Cassandra,_ and once from Gabriel, _Cassidiliy._ But he could handle _Cas._ And certainly there was no harm in looking.

The Monday before Thanksgiving, Castiel was preparing to leave when he found Dean leaning against the doorway, hands in the pockets of his heavy leather coat, like he belonged there.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, folding his bag shut. “How is your math class?”

Dean shrugged. “’Bout as interesting as number-crunching can be.”

“I see.” Castiel lifted his bag and left the room. Dean followed. Castiel was hyper aware of his presence as he shut the classroom door behind him. “I hope the subject matter is interesting to you.” 

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. “I guess.” He scratched his head for a moment. “I think Cox must think I’m an idiot.”

“Why do you say that?” Castiel said, his voice echoing through the empty hall. They seemed to be the last ones out, save for the custodian mopping the floor, who Dean raised a friendly hand to as they passed.

“Eh. It’s just been a long time since I dro-… err, since I was in school. Think I’m the oldest one in there by about a mile. Feel like I ask more questions than anyone. It’s just…” He shrugged, his face going a little red, like he’d said more than he meant to.

“It’s good to ask questions,” Castiel said. “It’s better to ask than to go along without understanding. And… as a teacher, I think, there’s nothing worse than a silent discussion.”

Dean bumped his arm in a friendly way. “It’s math, it ain’t a literature class. I don’t think there’s much discussing s’posed to go on.”

Sparks shot up Castiel’s arm. He tried to smile. “I suppose that’s true,” he said.

Dean opened the front door for him, and followed him down the concrete path, past the ugly, twisting bronze sculpture that had been set by the front doors in the seventies, out toward the parking lot. “You got any Thanksgiving plans?”

“My parents want me to come home,” Castiel said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the thought. “But they’re out in St. Louis. In Ladue. It’s such a pain to get out there, I think I’ll stay in. But I might see my brother.”

“Might?”

“Well. He can be difficult to nail down. He works a lot, parties a lot – he can be a bit of a flake.”

Dean let out a quiet laugh. When he saw Castiel’s questioning look, he said, “Sorry. I was just thinking that my brother would probably say the same thing about me.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I’m working the day before and the day after. So, I don’t really get to go anywhere. It’s usually the case for Thanksgiving. For lots of holidays.”

“Ah. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I usually get a little extra for working the holidays. But I always miss out on the food, you know? It’s supposed to be the best meal of the year, right?”

Castiel frowned. “Have you never had a proper Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Oh. Uh…” Dean adjusted his coat, pulling it closer around him. “No, I guess. Not really.”

“Your mother wasn’t much of a cook?”

“Uh. Heh… nah.” Dean swallowed. “I, uh. Tried to do stuff for my younger brother. When we got a little older. Never quite matched up to what we saw on TV, though.” He paused. “We just weren’t the most traditional family, growin’ up. That’s all.”

Castiel nodded. “It sounds like you were a good brother.”

“Yeah,” Dean snorted. “I tried.” He glanced at his watch, a chunky, black thing that looked a little awkward on his wrist, like it didn’t quite fit. “I gotta go. I’ll see you later, Cas.”

“Good-bye, Dean.”

Dean disappeared into the darkness, heading for the student lot. Castiel smoked a cigarette as he watched him go.

***

Castiel returned from Balthazar and Raphael’s yearly Friendsgiving relatively late, slightly light-headed from the wine. He was reclined on his sofa, his eyes dull and glued to the TV, when his phone chimed. He ignored it, assuming it was Balthazar again, or Gabriel texting again to give his belated regrets. He picked it up when it chimed a second time.

_From Unknown: Happy thanksgiving : )_

_From Unknown: its dean by the way_

Castiel’s face warmed, not unpleasantly. He sent back: _And how did you get my number?_ And then, quickly, so he wouldn’t seem so brittle: _Happy Thanksgiving to you as well._

_From Dean: ur number’s on the English dept page on the school site_

Ah, yes. Castiel had forgotten that his cell phone was accessible on the school website. His face warmed more at the thought – Dean had looked him up?

_From Castiel: I see._

_From Dean: ur brother ever show?_

_From Castiel: No. I went to see some friends instead._

_From Dean: Sorry. Not seein family on the holidays sucks._

Castiel could hardly agree with the sentiment, but he responded: _Yes, it does. Did you do anything nice today?_

_From Dean: I picked up an extra shift at my second job. So I guess that’s nice. Just sitting watching tv now, probably gonna pass out soon._

Castiel considered the text. Was that… an opening? Could Castiel say, _Why don’t we watch TV together?_

Oh, this was such a bad idea. Castiel did not like getting personal with his students, kept his relationships professional and distant at work, this was something that could come back to bite him in the ass in the future. So, he sent an anemic, _Yes, me too._

He put on his coat, and went out into the backyard for a cigarette, wishing Dean would text again.

When he finally went to bed, he did receive a text.

_From Bartholomew: Hello. How are you?_

“You greedy fucker,” he hissed, and deleted the text without responding.

***

Dean was outside his classroom again on the Wednesday after the holiday, dressed in holey jeans and his leather coat. His familiar greeting, “Hey, Cas.” His familiar grin.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Lemme walk you out,” Dean said.

“Thank you.”

They walked back to the parking lot together, until they reached Castiel’s car. It was an old junker, an ancient pickup truck with a tan stripe and wooden slats in the back that he was driving into the ground. In the back window was a tiny rainbow sticker – his own tiny rebellion.

Dean’s eyes lingered on the sticker, almost as if he were making sure that Castiel saw him staring at it. He looked back at Castiel, grinning.

“So,” Dean said. “What time am I picking you up on Saturday?”

Castiel blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”

Dean tilted his chin up, smirking. He had at least three inches of height on Castiel and Castiel could feel every inch of it. “Saturday. I’m taking you out.”

Castiel sputtered, completely flustered. He hadn’t expected this. “What… you… we…” He stopped himself, and said, “You’re a student!”

Dean snorted. “I’m 26, dude.”

Castiel paused. Dean was older than he thought – his soft face made him look a little younger. Still, though. “It’s not your age that’s the problem. You’re a student at the school that I teach at. It’s just not a good idea.” He pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket, and saw Dean grimace. “Sorry. Should I not?”

“Hate the smell,” Dean said.

Castiel put the cigarettes back into his pocket. Dean rocked back on his heels, acting like he was considering a problem. “What if I promise never to take an English class?”

“I certainly don’t want that.”

“Come on,” Dean said, leaning a hand on Castiel’s truck. “I asked around. I know you’re single. Let’s do somethin’. Or…” He moved an inch closer. “Are you really saying no?”

Castiel felt dizzy. Dean had asked about him? Researched him? Castiel swallowed, forced himself not to look down to where Dean’s his were jutting towards him, an obvious, lurid invitation.

“Really.” Dean put his hands back in his pockets. “Tell me to take a hike, and you’ll never see me again.”

“No, that’s…” Castiel sighed, shaking his head. Quietly, he said, “I don’t want that either.”

“Aright.” Dean grinned. “Strictly professional. I get it.”

“That’s right. Now get off of my truck so I can leave. It’s freezing out here.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’.” Dean straightened up, and started off toward the student lot. “See ya, Cas.”

“Good-bye.” Castiel climbed into his truck, watched Dean walk back over to the student lot, his body silhouetted by the streetlights.

***

“So, what if we just… meet?”

The weeks were crawling by. It was almost Christmas when Dean asked; again, they were out in the parking lot, leaning against Castiel’s truck. The weather had turned frigid, and it had snowed the night before. The parking lot was plowed and salted, and Castiel could feel it crunching under his shoes.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“What if…” Dean said. “What if I happen to be at the bar, and _you_ happen to be at the bar. And I happen to have a seat next to you at the bar, and I happen to say, ya know, ‘Hey, Cas! You teach at Eisenhower, right? Lemme buy you a beer!’ And you say, ‘Well, sure, Dean, I’ll take a…?’”

“A water.”

“A _water?_ ” Dean said, in mock-horror. “Shit. All right, ice waters all around.”

Castiel sighed. “Dean…”

Dean held up a hand to stop him. His face was pink in the cold, and his eyes pointed at the ground. “Okay. Okay. I get it. I’ll quit beggin’.”

Castiel studied him for a moment. Oh, fuck it. Why not? “Which bar?”

Dean looked at him, surprised, lips parted, and then he grinned. “Uh… how ‘bout, uh… the Southside Tavern? I dunno, would you really just want water? We could go somewhere else if you don’t drink-…?”

“That’s fine. I like the tavern.” Castiel pulled out a cigarette, but didn’t light it, just held it between his fingers, feeling comforted by it. “And I prefer lagers.”

“Lagers?” Dean grimaced. “All right, I’ll order some for your sorority sisters, too.”

Castiel snorted. “Ass. When are you planning this spontaneous meeting? I’m leaving for St. Louis this weekend.”

“Shit. I dunno, I never… heh.” Dean shrugged. “Never really thought you’d say yes. Uh…” He pulled out his phone, his screen illuminating his face. “Are you leaving Saturday or Sunday? I’m off early on Saturday, we could do it then. Maybe around six or seven?”

Castiel was happy to delay his trip to Ladue as long as possible. “Six _or_ seven?” he said.

“Six.” Dean smiled, and Castiel could see his freckles in the blue light of his screen. 

Castiel nodded. “Six o’clock on Saturday. I will casually bump in to you at the Southside Tavern.”

He was hanging his coat up at home when his phone chimed, and he pulled it out of his pocket, eager, hoping that it was Dean again.

_From Bartholomew: Are you doing well?_

Castiel heard himself let out a horrible, sardonic laugh. He deleted the text without responding.

***

If Castiel was honest with himself, he was a little… nervous. It had been a long time since he’d been on an actual date. A hook-up here or there, sure (and he hated that term. _Hook-up._ So trite). And… well. The occasional liaison with Bartholomew (he cringed at the thought). But a _date?_ It had been a while.

He changed his shirt three times, and then finally gave in and texted Balthazar with a half-panicked: _First date tonight, kind of. What should I wear?_

_From Balthazar: Black is slimming…_

_From Castiel: Do I need to be slimmed?!_

_From Balthazar: Just wear something low-cut so he can see your brazier._

Absolutely useless.

Castiel ended up in a black sweater and dark jeans, which he wore under his wool coat. It was absolutely freezing out, and he hoped it wouldn’t snow again before he had to drive to the airport. Castiel was decidedly not the best driver, and his skills declined proportionally to the worsening weather.

He arrived at the tavern a little early, knowing that he couldn’t handle this without a drink. He ordered a beer and found a small, empty table by the windows, and he pulled out his phone, and sent Dean a text: _I am ready for our spur-of-the-moment run-in whenever you are._

Minutes ticked by. The bar started to fill up, couples and groups of friends, single people filling the bar stools. Castiel drank half of his beer, determined to keep his eyes off of the clock. When he gave up and checked the time again, it was almost 6:30. 

Castiel typed: _Did you get lost?_ And sent it. The bar turned its music on, a little too loud, and the conversation swelled. The back of Castiel’s neck prickled. He set his phone on the table in front of him, screen up, and waited. Another five minutes passed.

And then his phone buzzed with a message: _Have to work – just found out. I’m sorry._

And then, a minute or so later: _Raincheck?_

Castiel sat for a moment, his eyes fixed to the screen. He forced himself to set the phone down, and he took a long drink of his beer. Then he sent back, _No. I don’t think so._

He turned off his phone and pocketed it, then finished his beer. He stood, deliberate and unhurried, threading his arms back into his coat, and walked back out the way he came. When he glanced behind him, he saw that his table had already been taken, which somehow made the entire situation worse. He stood out in the crowd of smokers and had a cigarette, and then another.

Dean texted him a few hours later – _Cas I’m real sorry! I screwed up my schedule, can I talk to you? –_ and then called once, twice.

Castiel didn’t pick up, feeling hurt and petulant and sour. It was not his first time being stood up, and that didn’t make it sting any less.

At home, sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, he considered the text from Bartholomew. That horrible, beckoning hand stretching out from across the darkness, practically a summons.

He shook himself, furious that he was even considering it, even _thinking_ about it, even allowing it to cross his mind. _No. Never again. No matter how sad, or lonely, or pathetic we feel. Never, ever, ever again._

***

Castiel lived four short but crucial hours from St. Louis. His parents lived outside the city, in the wealthy suburb of Ladue. As always, uncertain that his car would make the drive across the meandering, pin-straight freeway that crossed the state, Castiel flew into St. Louis and rented a boring dark-blue sedan at the airport. Having a return ticket also ensured that he would be out of the house at a specified time, on the dot, with no wiggle-room for staying an extra day, going to an extra Mass, having an extra meal, meeting one more of Mother’s “friends.” He arrived at his parents’ house late in the evening on Sunday, after clawing his way through the city traffic – last minute shoppers, probably couples out for romantic dinners. Assholes.

Michael’s stately black SUV, the size of something that would carry a foreign dignitary, was already parked in the long wraparound driveway, in front of Gabriel’s tawdry red sports car. Castiel pulled in behind it. Not quite ready to go inside, he skipped through the radio channels until he found a station playing hard rock. It was a little warmer in Ladue than it has been in Kansas City, and a soft rain was pitter-pattering on the windshield.

Castiel thought that maybe the next time he came down, he would just drive. That way he could sneak some weed back with him. He rubbed his eyes until he saw stars; he could already feel a headache forming, and he wasn’t even inside yet.

Someone was standing outside his window. Castiel jumped, surprised, and then he shook his head. Gabriel was crouched outside his window, making his ugliest face.

“Gabriel… God.” Castiel waved to him – _hello, idiot –_ and Gabriel hustled around to the other side of the car. Castiel unlocked the door.

“Brother, dear!” Gabriel said, climbing inside and bringing a rush of cold air with him. He snapped the door shut, and leaned over to give Castiel a hug, the cold buttons of his coat pressing against his face. “Shit! It’s good to see you, man.”

“You, too,” Castiel said, honestly.

“Damn, what’s it been? Six months since you were in Cincinnati?”

“Probably, about.”

“Well, how the hell are you? What’s new?” Gabriel looked good – his hair was a little longer than it had been, a little darker in some places, greyer in others, and he had shaved his beard and was sporting glasses instead of contacts,

“Nothing to report,” Castiel said.

“Uh-huh. Still doing that teaching gig, huh?” Gabriel said, shoving his backpack off, and dropping it between his feet. “Where’s that, uh… Eisenhower CC?”

“Yes. I’m still a teacher.”

“Why hasn’t Dad set you up with a cushy tenure position at Washington yet?”

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment. “Because I like what I do now.”

“Mm-hmm! I’ll bet that just burns him up.”

“I expect the subject will come up again this time,” Castiel said, his tone clearly not lost on Gabriel.

“Well! Since you didn’t ask, I am doing _fine,”_ Gabriel said. He leaned forward to rummage through his backpack. “Everything’s going great for me.”

“Still… uh… in custodial work?” His brother bounced around, different jobs, different houses, different women, every few months. Slipping and sliding through life, never staying anywhere long enough for people to put his name to his face.

“Excuse me?” Gabriel said, in mock-outrage. “I have the distinguished position of the Head of Groundskeeping and Maintenance at the University of Cincinnati!”

Castiel blushed, feeling like a snow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… not… I mean. Good. I’m glad.”

“Why, just last week I killed a rat the size of a freakin’ bathtub. My _God._ I should have taken a picture! I am completely indispensable.” He let out a reedy laugh. “Wait. Hang on. Hold _everything._ ” Gabriel dug into his backpack, and pulled out a square, plastic case. Castiel frowned.

“Is that a CD?”

“No, brother.” Gabriel popped the CD into the disc deck. “This is _the_ CD.”

The disc scratched for a moment, and then the music started.

_“Hit it! Naaah nah nah nah nah…”_

“Oh, Jesus,” Castiel groaned. 

“Come on, you know the words!” Gabriel said, clapping his hands. He bent forward and cranked up the bass until Castiel’s felt it in his teeth.

_“Here come the hotstepper! / Murderer / I’m a lyrical gangsta / Murderer / Pick up the crew in-a de area / Murderer / Still love you like that! / Murderer…”_

Gabriel looked at Castiel, dancing in his seat like a jackass while he sang along. _“No, no, we don't die, yes we multiply! Anyone test will hear the fat lady si-i-i-ing…”_

“Stop. Stop! Jesus!” Castiel said, and started to laugh. “You’re ridiculous! I’m going to go deaf.” He turned the volume down to a more manageable level.

“All right, all right, Captain Buzzkill,” Gabriel said, and then reached back into his bag and pulled out a large medicine bottle. “I’ll stop… if you smoke this joint with me.” He unscrewed the top of the bottle, and dumped an expertly-rolled joint into his palm, and then dug a lighter out of his pocket, a Bic that was the same offensive red as his car.

Castiel leaned back in his seat. “That is a terrible idea,” he said, despite the fact that he had been wishing for the very same thing just minutes ago.

“Whatever. Sobriety is for the strong-willed.” Gabriel cracked the windows and the sunroof, and sparked the joint while Castiel watched. Gabriel took in a deep hit, held it, and blew smoke out the crack in the window. “I can’t believe you flew, you Nancy. What’s the drive, three hours?” He coughed a few times into his sleeve.

Castiel shrugged, and reached out for the joint. “Four or five. Eight in this traffic, probably.” He took a small hit, and the warmth enveloped him like an old friend.

Gabriel grunted. “Yeah, I guess.” He took the joint back, and took another hit.

“I hate driving during the holidays, anyway,” Castiel said. “The traffic from the airport was surreal.”

“Yeah! I know what you mean.” Gabriel tapped ash out the window. “Did I ever tell you… oh, shit,” he said, and started to giggle, high-pitched, like a kid. “Once when we were kids, um… must have been between Dad’s first and second books, you know, before they really took off?” He took another hit. “Before, the, uh… TA situation.”

Castiel moved his hand slowly through the smoke, watching it drift through his fingers. “Yes.”

“Dad and Mom were driving me somewhere to Christmas shop, I don’t know, downtown or something. And some guy cut Dad off in a parking lot and Dad honked at him, I think, and the guy leaned out of his window and started yelling at him. Like, screaming his head off!”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. And Dad was just like, without missing a beat, rolled down the window and yelled, ‘Yeah, Merry Christmas, asshole!’”

Castiel felt a laugh bubble out of him. “Are you joking?”

“Dead serious. And, so, he pulls away and Mom just looks at him and says,” Gabriel reached up and touched his throat, in a near-perfect imitation of their mother touching her jewelry, “‘I do not care if he burns in hell!’”

The two of them burst into fits of laughter.

Castiel took the joint for one more hit, and then said, “No more. I’ll be a complete mess.”

“You’re a goddamn lightweight, Fredo. You’re breakin’ my heart.” Gabriel took another hit, and then pulled a Snickers bar out of his backpack. He tore the wrapper off and bit into it. He was like a sugar ant, always finding more. “So, Cassie…” he said as he chewed. “Has Mother-dear arranged your marriage yet?”

“Oh, screw you.”

Gabriel horked out a laugh. “Shit. She is out of control. She’s all over me these days, every time she calls, _Who are you seeing? Taken any_ respectable _young ladies out?_ Like, shit. It doesn’t help that forty’s creepin’ up – I think she thinks if I’m still a bachelor I’ll just shrivel up and turn to dust. And would it even matter if I was married? Really? She wouldn’t like her anyway! You remember when she made my prom date cry?”

Castiel, who had been fourteen when Gabriel was going to his senior prom, remembered only being a sullen teenager who was very focused on his own narcissism. But he said, “Yes.”

“Shit! I think she thinks if she wears me down enough, I’ll finally let her set me up.” He coughed again, hard. “But, really. Seein’ anyone?”

“Hmm.” Castiel waved his hand through the smoke again, dissipating it. He thought, _Now is the time. If you’re going to tell him. Now is the time._ What a chickenshit he was. “No,” he said. “Not really. There was… someone I was talking to. Briefly. But… I don’t think we were on the same page.”

“What do you mean? Like, they were more serious and you were just lookin’ for a good time?”

Castiel snorted. “Not exactly.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It was a bad idea from the start.” He looked at Gabriel and said, “Student.”

“Mmmh.” Gabriel nodded, as if he knew exactly what Castiel was talking about. He took another bite of his candy bar, and held one finger in the air, as if he were a wise philosopher. “Don’t shit where you eat. That’s my motto.”

“That’s a good motto.”

Gabriel crammed the last of the chocolate in his mouth, and looked up at the house. Castiel followed his gaze. The house loomed before them like a storm cloud – the Doric-style columns lit from the base, the pristine, white walls recently painted, the imposing veranda refinished that summer. Castiel felt like he was shrinking beneath it. “Have you gone in yet?”

“He-e-ell no.” Gabriel cracked the door open to scratch the joint out on the pavement (their parents’ driveway was, of course, paved). He dropped the joint back into the medicine bottle, and threw it back into his backpack. “We should probably get in there.” Castiel rolled up the windows, and then opened his own door to let some of the reek out. Gabriel cleared his throat, coughed, and then started giggling again, which made Castiel laugh, too. “Hey! _Hey!_ Get your shit together, Dad’s gonna be able to tell.”

“He’ll know anyway. He’ll probably be able to smell it on us.” Castiel gave his coat an experimental sniff. “I can smell it.” Shit. This had been a terrible idea.

“Stop being paranoid. I’ll spritz us with a little Poo-pourri.” He pulled a white spray bottle out of his pocket, and gave it a shake.

Castiel blanched. “The… toilet spray? Why do you…? You just carry that around with you?”

“You never know when you’re gonna need to take a stinky dumper. I like to be polite.” He shook the bottle at Castiel. “I have this for _your_ benefit!”

“You are not spraying me with toilet spray.”

“It’s just essential oils and stuff.”

Castiel pulled out some eyedrops. “No. Absolutely not.” He put two drops in each eye, blinking hard against the burn.

“Look! It’s just citrusy oils. Less than 1% poo, guaranteed.”

Castiel waited a moment for his vision to clear, and looked at the bottle. It seemed innocuous enough. “All right. It had better not stain anything.”

Gabriel sprayed them both down, and they climbed out of the car and stood in the open air while they each smoked one of Gabriel’s cigarettes. They were gross, unfiltered American Spirits, and they made Castiel cough. He preferred his Marlboros, which Gabriel sneered at. The rain had died down to a dreary, cold drizzle, and the mist felt clarifying, helped Castiel get his feet under himself. He brought his suitcase up to the door, and Gabriel knocked out a pattern on the door and rang the bell three times before shoving it open.

“Hidey-ho! It’s the murderers!” he called.

“In here,” Castiel heard his mother say from the living room.

Everything in the foyer was the same as it had been when he was growing up. The dark hardwood floors, the antique floral wallpaper (restored!), the family portraits and graduation photos hanging on the walls, the small table inside the door that held ever-rotating flowers (currently some pale pink roses). Castiel set his suitcase down, taking a moment to breathe it all in.

Gabriel, however, went straight into the living room. “Big Mikey-y-y! How’s it hangin’?”

Castiel shrugged out of his coat, and dropped it on his suitcase. Gabriel was right – sobriety was from the strong-willed. Castiel went into the kitchen, looking to scrounge up some gin before facing his family.

Dad was in the kitchen already, standing in front of the open freezer. He could see his father’s back, his corduroy jacket and dark trousers, dropping ice into a rocks glass. He turned, sensing Castiel behind him.

“Castiel,” he said, and smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling. His curly, brown hair was still dark, but his beard was streaked with grey, more than Castiel’s remembered.

“Hi, Dad,” Castiel said, surprised by the sudden lump in his throat. Dad shut the freezer, and pull Castiel into a tight embrace.

“My God! How long’s it been, two years?”

“One,” Castiel said into his shoulder, unwilling to let go yet. “I was here last Christmas.”

“Really? Feels longer.”

“It does.”

Dad took his shoulders and held him back at arm’s length. “You look tired.”

Castiel shrugged. “A bit. Flying always takes it out of me.”

“You look great, though. Still running?”

“Oh, yes.”

Dad threw an arm around him, and led him back to the foyer. “How did classes finish out?”

“All right.” Then he said,” Actually, quite well. I thought my groups were very engaged this term. Usually this time of year is a slog.”

“Mm-hmm. Still at that community college, right?”

Castiel felt his mouth twist. “Yes.”

“You know, I still have ties at Washington. I could put in a good word for you. Whenever you want.”

Castiel sighed, the familiar back and forth tearing a chunk out of him. “Thank you. But you know I don’t want to teach at Washington, Dad. I like Eisenhower. And I like Kansas City.”

“All right, all right.” To his surprise, Dad gave him another hug, but then he leaned into Castiel’s ear and said, “Go change before you see your mother.” Dad smirked at him, and walked off into the living room.

Castiel blushed to the roots of his hair. He picked up his suitcase and jogged up the stairs to his old room, and shut the door securely behind him.

The room had been stripped and scrubbed down into a stylish guest room since Castiel moved out. He had been a studious, somber teenager, and he hadn’t had many posters or things to be removed. Now the room was hardwood floors, a thick, cream rug, and pale blue walls. Castiel heaved his suitcase on to the light blue bedspread (floral-patterned), and dug out a park of jeans and a white button-down. He changed, leaving his smoke-infused clothes in the hamper for the maid, and washed his hands in the small en-suite. Then he swished with mouthwash as well. He was pleasantly buzzing from the weed, not too terribly high, but wished he hadn’t done it. Wished he was facing this with his head on straight.

Castiel pulled a sweater over his head, and went down the stairs to where his mother was standing.

His mother’s hair had gone fully steel-grey, and she had cut it short. She was made up perfectly, with dark eyeliner and light pink lipstick, and she was wearing a pristine silk jacket like she was entertaining royalty. She broke into a surprisingly genuine smile, and walked over to his as he reached the ground floor, putting out a genial arm to wrap around his shoulders.

“Mother,” Castiel said, accepting her stiff hug.

“My baby, Castiel,” she said, “how are you? You’re too thin.”

“I-…”

“And this hair! It’s too long, Castiel, you really need to get it trimmed. What will your students think?”

In the living room, Dad called, “Naomi…”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes.” She drew him in to the (formal!) living room, where Gabriel already sat with Michael, and Michael’s heavily-pregnant red-haired wife, Anna. Michael, Castiel supposed, was a bit like him – more tight-lipped than the rest of their family. He looked stiff and bored in his dark suit, probably with his mind on work. Castiel could see Gabriel chattering nervously, taking long drinks of his beer. The living room was decorated brilliantly (probably by a professional) with gold and silver decorations, and the tree was huge, to the high ceiling, glowing like the sun and filling the room with pine scent. It was real, of course.

The scent wasn’t strong enough, though. His mother’s nose wrinkled as she walked near Gabriel. “What is that _smell?”_

Gabriel twitched and froze, like a scared mouse. Anna smirked, and covered her mouth with her hand. Castiel said, “I think it’s from the air freshener in the rental, it was very strong. I’m sorry if it’s bothering you.”

“Ugh! You should report that to the rental company,” his mother said.

“I’m sure I will.”

Mother lit a scented candle (also pine-scented, in an expensive-looking gold jar), and sat beside Dad on the sofa opposite of the rest of the family. Michael and Anna rose to give him matching, awkward hugs (theirs was not much of a hugging family, and Michael was more than ten years older than him – they had never been close). Castiel sat on the sofa beside Gabriel, close to the roaring fire.

“Where are the kids?” he said. His nephew and niece, Michael Jr. and Claire, were six and five respectively. Castiel had presents for them; a model car for Michael, and an expensive Barbie for Claire that the toy store salesgirl had assured him was all the rage.

“Asleep upstairs,” Anna said, running a hand down her swollen belly. “Shockingly, it was snowing when we left Chicago, so the drive took forever. We just got in this evening.”

“You all missed the evening Mass, I’m afraid,” Mother said. “It’s best not to do such long drives in your condition. I can’t believe Michael allowed it.”

Michael didn’t react when she said his name. Castiel watched a drop of condensation fall off of Michael’s half-empty glass on to the rug.

“Well, it’s better than being trapped in an airplane,” Anna said, and she put her feet up on the ottoman. Castiel could hear the irritation in her voice that she was carefully trying to mask – this must have been going on for a while before he arrived.

“How’s the little lentil?” he said.

Anna let out a soft laugh, and patted her stomach. “More like a big, fat melon, now. Doing just fine. How’s Kansas City? Have you had snow yet?”

“It’s-…”

“Have you thought of names?” his mother said. “Sorry, Castiel. Anna, what names are you thinking of?”

Anna gave her a tight smile. “Nothing for sure yet.”

“Well, I hope you’ll consider _Remiel_ ,” his mother said, brushing imaginary dust off of her knee. “You know how we love angelic names in this family.”

Michael sipped his drink and stared at the fire. Anna said, “We’re considering it.”

“Hey, Mom, you should tell her the proper birthing method, too,” Gabriel said. “I hear all fours is totally _a la mode.”_ Dad smothered a laugh, and Castiel grinned at Anna, who covered a smile.

“ _Don’t_ be vulgar,” his mother snapped. The conversation lulled, and Castiel wished he’d grabbed that drink.

They broke up around ten. Gabriel’s head was drooping into his chest (and he called Castiel a lightweight), Anna looked visibly exhausted, and his mother announced that if she didn’t go to bed now, she’d _never_ wake up in the morning.

Castiel felt gross from the travel and the flight, so he dropped his clothes into the hamper and climbed into the high-walled antique tub for a shower. The bedroom was drafty, and he was still a little stoned, so the hot water felt particularly amazing. He washed up, feelings floaty and aimless. His mind wandered, back to his truck, sat in the airport parking lot (it wasn’t going to make it through another year, no way, it was time to bite the bullet and go to a dealership), to school (he was teaching English Comp 102 to follow the English Comp 101 last quarter and he still needed to shift some items on the syllabus), to Dean.

Dean. Making Castiel want him, and then standing him up.

“Little shit,” Castiel murmured. Castiel thought of him, his beautiful, green eyes, his plump, pink lips. His long throat, the muscles in his arms, the shape of his ass through his ripped jeans. Castiel slid a hand down his stomach and squeezed his cock, working himself slowly.

Dean bent over his desk, legs spread. _Cas,_ he moaned. Begging for it.

“Fuck.” Castiel stripped his cock quickly, orgasm catching him fast and a little by surprise. “ _Fuck,”_ he whispered, cumming hard. “Oh!” He bit his lips together.

He stood under the water, breathing hard, a little shocked with himself. He washed the cum off of his hand and stomach, suddenly feeling even more disgusting that he had before the shower. He turned off the water, and stepped out into the chill. Definitely time for bed.

***

_I feel like shit. Will you please talk to me?_

Castiel stared at the text. It had come in around noon, and now, at past five on Christmas Eve, Castiel was starting to feel real guilt at ignoring it. He took a long drink of his gin and tonic – at this rate, he’d be asleep in the pew during Mass.

Christmas Eve, the night of his mother’s annual Christmas party, for all extended family and friends and neighbors to come and ooh and ahh over the house and decorations. At least it was catered – including a full bar. Not that his parents needed it; their house was kept fully stocked year-round in that regard.

“Castiel, dear?” Castiel quickly shoved his phone into his pocket, and looked at his mother. A young woman stood beside her, with dark flat-ironed hair and intense blue eyes. She was dressed primly in a teal dress and yellow sweater, and her smile didn’t go past her eyes. Here she was; his mother’s selection for him for the evening. “You can give Hael a tour, can’t you? She’s curious about the house.”

“Certainly.” Castiel got to his feet, feeling the alcohol swarm into his head like a hive of bees. “Hello, Hael.”

“Castiel,” Hael said, slightly wooden. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Would you like a drink?” Castiel took her arm, feeling like a robot. His mother gave him a pleased smile, and returned to her groupies.

“Please.”

He drew her over to the bar. The caterer had sweat blooming under the arms of his starchy white shirt and red vest. “What would you like?” Castiel said.

“Uh… white wine?”

Castiel looked at the sweaty bartender. “Chardonnay, please.”

The bartender nodded, filled a glass, and passed it to him. He picked it up and gave the glass to Hael, who held it delicately, and took a healthy drink.

“Do you live in the area?”

Hael took another drink. “Yes, unfortunately. I want to live in in the city, but my parents think it’s too dangerous.”

“Hmm. Well, it’s a city. I suppose any city is ‘dangerous.’”

Hael scoffed. “I just want to live closer to the college so I don’t need to commute. Plenty of decent people live in the city.”

“My brother and sister-in-law live in Chicago. They can tell you; every city has its safer and riskier places.” He paused. She was clearly younger than him, but her age was difficult to place. “Are you… a graduate student?”

Hael shook her head, and took another glug of her wine. “Look,” she said firmly. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You seem really nice. But I have a boyfriend.”

Castiel watched her for a moment.

Hael shook her head. “My family doesn’t like him. Mom’s threatening to cut me off. So here I am, pretending to prattle on with you. But I don’t want you to feel like I’m leading you on.”

Castiel smiled. “I see. Then it sounds like you and I are in the same boat.”

Hael’s mouth open, then shut. “What?”

“I’m afraid you’re not really… my type.”

Hael seemed to struggle with that for a moment. “Oh… well… Good,” she said, like she wasn’t completely pleased.

“Why doesn’t your family like your boyfriend?” Castiel asked.

Hael reached into the pocket of her sweater and withdrew her cell phone. She tapped around for a moment, and then turned it so that Castiel could see the screen. The photo was of Hael, cheek to cheek with a handsome, smiling black man. “Three guesses why.”

Castiel sipped his gin. “That’ll do it out here, I suppose.”

Hael put her phone away, and slid her arm back through Castiel’s. “So, Castiel… tell me about your family home, your mother does so go on about it. The oldest colonial revival in the area?”

Castiel snorted. “Yes, the oldest colonial revival in the area.”

They did a few laps around the room, ensuring that they were seen by everyone in attendance. Hael told him about her classes – she was a senior in college, PoliSci major, maybe law school in the fall, she wasn’t sure. _Really, Mother? A 21-year-old?_ Castiel thought. Castiel told her about his own classes, and Kansas City. This made him think of Dean, which gave him another icy stab of guilt.

“Can you show me to the restroom?” Hael said, two glasses of Chardonnay later. Castiel did, and then wandered over to where Anna was camped at the hors d’oeuvres table.

“Hey,” she said, and popped a cucumber sandwich into her mouth. “How’s it going?”

Castiel shrugged. “Nothing new to report.” He finished the last of his gin and tonic, and set the glass on the table. “Where’s my brother?”

“Somewhere around with the kids. Hiding, probably.” She grinned, and then nodded over his shoulder.

Hael was behind him, pulling on her coat. She put a finger to her lips, then gave him a wave and a bright smile on her way through the crowd out the door. Castiel waved uselessly at her retreating back, and then let his hand fall.

Anna laughed quietly. “You ran off Hael.”

“I suppose I did.”

Anna grinned knowingly, and then scooped up a dip-covered cracker and bit into it. “Jesus. Was she even old enough to drive?”

“Thereabout.” Castiel ate a cracker. “Maybe next time Mother can scrounge up someone who came in on a tricycle.”

Anna barked out a laugh. “Yeah. She’s something else,” she said around a mouthful of food.

“Tell me about it.” Castiel scanned the crowd. Gabriel was over by the fire, laughing uproariously, probably at his own joke. His mother was holding court near the tree, pointing out the antique ornaments to the gaggle of guests around her. _The oldest ornaments in the area._ Castiel stifled a snort. “How are you feeling?”

Anna rested a hand on her hip, wincing. “Sober. Exhausted. The usual.”

“How’s the little melon?”

Anna ran a hand down her stomach. “Kicking like a freaking Rockette. I cannot wait to be done with this one.”

“Any name ideas yet? Besides _Remiel?”_ Then he winced. “Sorry. I’m sure you’re sick of answering that question.”

“Actually, I have decided on a name.” Anna sipped her cola. “Ashley, if it’s a girl. Asher, if it’s a boy.”

Castiel nodded slowly, trying not to smile. “Those certainly aren’t angelic. Or biblical.”

Anna looked him squarely in the eye. “No, they are not,” she said, in a measured tone. Suddenly, Castiel liked her a whole lot more.

Castiel stuck with Anna for the rest of the night, feeling a sudden, strong camaraderie with her that he hadn’t felt before. Much to his mother’s distaste, he did not pursue any of the other single women at the party.

Later in the night, he messaged Dean: _I have another evening class this quarter. I’ll be free at 8PM on the sixth, if you’d still like to speak._

A little while later, Dean texted back, _Okay. See u then._

He went to the midnight Mass feeling lighter, almost absolved, almost eager. He carried a giggling Claire on his back as they walked the six blocks to the giant church, and wasn’t annoyed when Gabriel sang off-key in his ear, or when the incense made him sneeze. He gave his mother a hug during the sign of peace, much to her pleased surprise. Not even her meddling could kill his optimistic mood.

***

Christmas morning was pleasant enough. Michael Jr. and Claire were showered with gifts, thoroughly spoiled as the only grandchildren. Castiel’s parents gave him an expensive wool sweater and an old copy of _The Sound and the Fury,_ by William Faulkner. Gabriel gave him a giant jug of mid-range gin. Michael and Anna gave him a gift card for a department store near his home.

“We weren’t sure what to get you,” Anna said, with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I know it’s kind of a cop-out.”

“Nonsense,” Castiel said. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

The rest of the day went smoothly. Dad played Christmas records on his prized record-player, and Mother had some of her preferred friends over for Christmas brunch. Castiel had expected another suitor (suitoress?) to be waiting in the wings for him, but it seemed like he might have managed to avoid another awkward set-up for the time being, as all in attendance were his parents’ age.

The friends and well-wishers left, and they had finished Christmas dinner, the leftovers were cleared, and they were having dessert and coffee. Gabriel was making faces at Claire and Michael Jr. over his cup, and Anna was laughing along with them.

“What are you teaching this quarter?” Dad said. Castiel looked at him.

“Ah… let’s see…” He set his mug down. “A few Comp 102 classes, Intro to Literature, and Birth of the Novel. Nothing terribly exciting, I’m afraid.” And then he cringed, wishing he hadn’t added that last bit.

Dad took the opening. “I wish you would consider looking at a position at a proper university,” Dad said. “I just feel like you’re not maximizing your potential at such a… small school.”

“My potential?” Castiel said.

Dad waved a hand. “You could just be doing so much more. Eisenhower is great, I’m sure it’s a wonderful school. But Washington is just a higher-caliber college. You could be doing research, publishing papers! You’re a great writer, better than me. You never write anymore.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I wrote some textbooks. I’m hardly a _writer.”_

“Your father and I are just saying that you should be taking your future more seriously,” Mother cut in, and Castiel wondered if they had planned this, to tag-team him after dinner.

Castiel kept his face carefully blank. “I take my future very-…”

“I mean, Castiel, _really,”_ Mother said shortly. “You’re 32, you’re letting your career flounder, and you still aren’t married. No prospects, even!”

“Why isn’t Uncle Castiel married?” Claire said, slopping her melted ice cream around on her plate.

Castiel smiled at her. “Because no one wants to marry your poor, old Uncle Castiel.” 

Claire giggled. “Nuh-uh!”

“What about you, Claire-bear?” Gabriel said. “Do you want to marry Uncle Castiel?”

“No!” she said, still giggling.

Anna grinned. “Good choice, sweetie,” she said. 

Gabriel looked at Castiel, shaking his head. “You heard the lady. Single forever.”

Castiel shrugged. “It’s decided, then.”

“This is serious!” Mother snapped, smacking a hand on the mahogany table. Every eye at the table turned to her, even Michael looked up from the business email on his phone, and Castiel was shocked by the outburst. Mother sat back in her chair, clearly gathering herself. “I don’t understand why you are so adamantly against me in this.”

Castiel took a slow breath. “Because I don’t want to get married right now. I’m not even dating anyone. Shouldn’t that be step one?”

“What was wrong with Hael?” Mother snapped. Castiel scowled at her tone, and his father reached out and patted her arm.

“She was 21, Mother. She wasn’t even out of college yet. Half of my own students are older than her.” He angrily dumped another spoonful of sugar into his coffee. “I’m not interested in dating children.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” She shook her head. "Why don't you call up Muriel, if you're looking for someone your own age? She still lives close." 

"Muri...?" Castiel stared at her, honestly at a loss. And then he had to briefly shut his eyes in horror. "Muriel from high school? That Muriel?" Castiel said. "You think I should call up my high school girlfriend?" 

“ _Naomi_ ,” Dad said, and squeezed her arm. “Maybe that’s enough for now, hmm?”

Mother shook her head. “This conversation isn’t over,” she announced, albeit quietly. Then she lifted her coffee and sipped it delicately. “Anna, dear, you shouldn’t drink that. It has caffeine!”

Anna looked at her cup. “It’s decaf.”

“Decaf still has small amounts of caffeine in it. You need to think of the baby.”

Gabriel caught Castiel’s eye across the table, and mouthed, _Holy shit._ Castiel shook his head.

His flight back seemed like an eternity away.

***

Why did he insist on staying at a community college? He had the qualifications, the degrees, he had the clout, he certainly had the dynastic appeal. He could get a position at a four-year school if he had the desire, if he pushed for it, if he really wanted it.

Castiel supposed that was just it – he didn’t want it. He liked the community college atmosphere; hardly any inter-departmental politics, less nepotism. Fewer students were here because their parents had money, because of who they _knew._ Sure, there were definitely students here who were just here for lack of anything else to do. But most of them were there to work. To learn. And Castiel loved teaching; not researching, not writing, not publishing. Teaching.

Winter quarter started off with a whimper. No one was ready to be back from their break, and everyone was tired from the holidays, Castiel included. Castiel had almost forgotten that he had promised to speak with Dean after his evening class, until he was standing by the door when his students filed out. He was in a tight black tee-shirt and soft jeans with a rip at the knee on one leg, and high on the thigh on the other. He was holding his coat in his bare arms, and Castiel wondered if he was doing it on purpose, showing a little skin.

Well. It was working.

Gabriel’s voice in his head: _Hey, Fredo. Don’t shit where you eat._

“Let’s go to my office,” Castiel said, before Dean could speak. He led Dean through the waning crowd of evening students, through the English wing, to his small office. It was a matchbox-sized space, just big enough for two or three people, some shelves, and his desk.

Dean shut the door behind him, and then locked it, and stood, watching the wall.

“I missed you,” Dean said, finally. Then he looked at Castiel. “Missed talkin’ to you. I like it when we talk.”

Castiel tried to smile. “Me, too.” He sank into his desk chair, and Dean laid his coat in one of the seats across the desk, but remained standing.

“Are you, uh…” Dean said, resting his hands on the back of the chair. “Are you… pissed?”

Castiel gave him a withering stare. “You did stand me up. I think I’m entitled.”

“I did not stand you up!” Dean said, defensively. Then he added, “Well… okay. I did. But it was an accident. Really.”

Castiel watched him.

“ _Really._ Look. I…” Dean scratched the back of his head. “Shit. I work two jobs right now, and I got my hours all screwed up. I thought I had the night off. Didn’t realize I didn’t until they were callin’ me to find out why I was late. I tried to get it switched up, but my boss was already pissed off ‘cuz I had to switch my shifts around for finals, and I couldn’t push it. And I was tryin’ to find someone to cover for me once I got there, and I just… I didn’t realize how late it was until it was too late.” He crossed his arms, his muscles standing in relief in the dim light. Castiel realized, for the first time, how tired the younger man looked. “I’m kickin’ myself, all right? I know I blew it. I’m… sorry.”

Castiel sat back in his chair, rolling a pen between his fingers. His treacherous mind flitted back to Bartholomew, rearing up in his brain like a tumor. _It just wouldn’t be good for me to be seen out with you. I need you to respect that._ “I know Kansas City is fairly liberal, but it’s not exactly New York. It’s not always easy to be seen out with a man. Are you sure you didn’t get… nervous?”

Dean’s face steeled. “I’m no coward,” he said. “I wouldn’t ever stand you up like that on purpose.”

Castiel sighed. “Dean… maybe it was, I don’t know. A sign. This isn’t a good idea.” He shook his head, wished he’d had a cigarette before this conversation. He flexed his fingers. He’d been so sure, now he was so hesitant. “And you don’t need to ask me out again because you feel like you need to make it up to me, or whatever this is.” 

“What?” Dean said, frowning. His voice low, he said, “You think I don’t really want you?”

Castiel stared at him, feeling warmth creeping up under his collar. “I don’t know.”

Dean came around to Castiel’s side of the desk, resting his hand back on the flat surface. Castiel’s eyes traveled up Dean’s legs, the fly of his jeans and the buckle of his belt, the raw edge of his tee-shirt, the long line of his throat, the stubble on his chin, his lips as they turned in to a triumphant smirk, his green eyes. His closeness was palpable; it made Castiel blush.

“I’m not fucking around here, Cas,” Dean said. “Thursday night?”

Castiel nodded, his entire body warm. “Very well.”

“I’ll pick you up this time. Huh?”

Castiel smiled, felt himself relax a little. “I’d like that.”

And then, _yes_ , Dean leaned down and kissed him, his lips like soft silk against Castiel’s. Castiel heard himself make a sound, almost a whimper, almost a grunt. His hands went up to Dean’s broad shoulders, and he held on tight. He felt Dean smile against his lips, and when Dean drew back a little, he said, “Fuckin’ finally.”

Castiel got to his feet, and Dean straightened up, watching him. Castiel slid a hand around the back of Dean’s head, and kissed him again. Dean’s arms went easily around his waist, holding him close. Dean mouth opened and Castiel pushed his tongue inside gently, tasting him. He felt a strong thrum of arousal pulse through him, and he knew they were reaching the point of no return, if one of them didn’t put a stop to this. Incredibly, Dean actually ground his crotch against his, keying him up even more.

He turned them so that Dean’s back was to the door, his hips bracketed by Castiel’s desk.

“We should. We should stop,” Castiel got out, almost panting. “Not here. We should wait.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean’s fist tightened in the back of his jacket. “Guess you’d better get offa me, then.”

“Yes.” Castiel kissed him again, and heaved him up on to the desk. Dean let out a soft sound of surprise, and then grabbed at the lapels of Castiel’s jacket, and shoved it off of his shoulders. Castiel pushed it off, let it fall to the carpet, then yanked his tie off and let it fall beside it. Dean thrust his hips against Castiel’s growing erection, and Castiel could feel him getting hard. He slid a hand up the back of Dean’s shirt so he could touch his skin.

“Fuck,” Dean rasped. “You want me to suck you off? Huh? Want me to crawl under this desk and suck you dry?” Dean breathed. “Make you cum harder than anyone’s ever made you cum…”

Castiel moaned. Yes, yes, yes, he wanted it all. He wanted everything Dean was willing to give him. “I want to see you,” he got out. “I want us to cum together.”

Dean’s face went bright red. “Shit,” he said, almost laughed. “Where the fuck have you been? Huh?”

Castiel kissed him again, hard, deep and dirty. He got his teeth around Dean’s bottom lip and bit, scratching his nails against Dean’s skin. Dean groaned loud, and Castiel felt, actually _felt_ Dean’s cock get harder in his jeans.

“Oh! Do you like that? Do you like it a little rough?”

“Um…” Dean suddenly looked shy, unsure of himself. “A… a little,” he said, breathless. “N-Not too rough, though.”

“Never. Never,” Castiel said, and kissed him gently again, sucking on the red mark on his bottom lip. His hand went to Dean’s fly. “Can I?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Cas,” Dean murmured. He reached down and undid his own belt, and then got his hands around Castiel’s belt and opened it.

Castiel opened Dean’s fly and shoved a hand inside his underwear, found his cock hard and warm. “Ah… _yes…_ ” He pushed Dean’s underwear down around his balls, and gently rolled them in his hand.

“ _Urrgh… fuck…”_ Dean hissed, thrusting up into his hands. He yanked Castiel’s pants open. “C’mon, c’mon… want it…” He got pushed Castiel’s boxers down and got his cock out. “Fuck, yeah…” he murmured. His hands were warm, a little rough.

“Mmmh, _Dean,_ ” Castiel groaned, and kissed him again, slotting their hips together. 

Castiel had expected that Dean’s voice would deepen during sex, but it actually went higher. Dean practically whimpered into his throat as he thrust their cocks together. His skinny legs came up to wrap around Castiel’s hips. Papers, photos, a tissue box flew off the desk, and Castiel didn’t care. Dean was the only thing he could feel, only thing he could see, could smell, could taste.

He was getting close, could feel his balls drawing tight, his cock throbbing with his heartbeat. He didn’t want to cum on his shirt, so, ever pragmatic, he unbuttoned it at the neck and cuffs, and stripped it over his head.

Dean leaned back a moment – his cock was angry and red, fluid gathering at the tip. “Fuck, you got a great body, Cas,” he said, drinking him in. Castiel blushed.

“Thank you,” he said. Dean reached behind him and pulled his own shirt off. A necklace thumped against his chest. He dropped the tee-shirt on the desk beside him, and reached for Castiel. “C’mere. Want you.”

Somewhere in the distance, a floor-polisher was running. A custodian was near. But Castiel didn’t care. He could suddenly think of nothing else but Dean. His body, his mouth, his cock, his skin against Castiel's. Castiel wanted to make him cum. Wanted to take him apart.

He wrapped an arm around Dean’s back and pushed their hips together again, wrapping one hand around their cocks, and thrust against him. Dean’s left hand went behind him to the desk, to hold himself up, and the other arm went around the back of Castiel’s neck, clinging on to him.

“Mmh… _mmh…_ Cas… Cas, oh… _fuck,_ Cas…” Dean whimpered. Castiel shifted his grip to hold Dean’s cock alone, squeezed him, jerked him quickly, ran a thumb over the fluid at the tip. “ _Uh – uh – uh – ah!”_ Dean’s cock twitched in his hand and he came, shooting across his stomach.

Dean went a little limp, gasping, body still twitching with aftershocks. Castiel kissed his temple, and then he felt Dean’s warm fingers wrapping around his cock, starting to jerk him.

“Yes…” Castiel breathed into his hair.

“Cas. You gonna cum? Cum for me, Castiel.”

“Dean!” Castiel choked out, surprised. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Dean say his full name, and hearing it now, so deep and low and erotic… Castiel shut his eyes and came into Dean’s hands.

Dean collapsed on his elbows, his head dropping back, exposing his long throat. Castiel braced himself on his hands, hovering over him, breathing hard. He took a moment to look over Dean’s lovely body, the necklace around his neck, the cum splattering his stomach, his cock, still hard against his stomach. He pressed one last kiss to the column of Dean’s throat, and straightened up.

Castiel crouched, awkward with his pants half-off, and grabbed the box of tissues that hand been knocked to the floor. He withdrew a handful to wipe himself off. He tugged his underwear back up around his softening cock, and then wiped off Dean’s stomach as well. Dean grinned at him, still reclined back on the desk.

“Thanks,” he said, sitting up. He pulled his shirt back on, and then pulled up his underwear. Castiel sank into his swivel chair, suddenly exhausted. He wished they were in his home, in his big, soft bed, so he could lay with Dean and relax. Kiss him some more. Fall asleep with him. Sex in the office seemed like such a fun idea until it finished – then it felt strange, almost cold. You couldn’t exactly lay in the afterglow if there was no lying down.

“Okay?” Castiel said, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Damn it, Mother was right – it was entirely too long.

“Yeah.” Dean gave him an easy smile, fixing his pants. He reached over and fixed the framed pictures that had gotten knocked over. “Uh… Cute kids. They yours?”

“What?” Castiel said, and looked at the pictures. One of was a picture of Claire and Michael Jr. from last Christmas, in their nicest holiday outfits. Claire had a big, red present bow in her hair. “No, no. God, no. My niece and nephew.” He picked up his shirt, put it back on, and fixed the buttons.

Dean nodded, still looking at the pictures. “You got any kids, or…?”

Castiel shook his head. “No. No kids, no wife or girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Just me.”

Dean looked at him for a moment, refastening his belt. “How old are you, anyway?” he said, finally. “37?”

Castiel looked at him, horrified. “Are you… are you joking?” Dean shrugged slowly. “I’m 32!”

“O-Oh,” Dean said. “Uh… sorry? I dunno! I just… thought you were older.”

“Jesus Christ. _37.”_ Castiel shook his head, tucking his shirt back in. He leaned down and grabbed his tie and suit jacket off the ground.

“I’m sorry. It’s not… it’s not a bad thing. I like older guys,” Dean said. 

Castiel scoffed. “Oh? Am I too young for you?” he said, draping his tie around his neck.

“No!” Dean said, looking a little offended, maybe a little hurt.

Castiel stopped himself, realizing he was sounding like a prick. He tried to smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just kidding,” he said, and leaned forward to peck Dean on the lips. “But if you ever suggest I’m that much older than you again, we’re going to have a problem.”

Dean studied him for a moment, then appeared to decide to let it go, and he grinned back. “All right, Professor.”

“Oh, Hell.” Castiel tugged his jacket back on. “You’re a _brat._ I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, you ain’t the first to say so.” Dean slid off the desk. “Oh, _fuck me._ Tell me that clock ain’t right.”

“Hmm?” Castiel looked back at the clock on the wall behind him. Almost nine. “No, it’s a little slow.”

Dean groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “Fuck me. I am so fuckin’ fired, it’s not even funny.”

“Oh, no,” Castiel said. “Really?”

“No. Yeah. I dunno. It’s okay.” Dean shook his head. “I hate this job, anyway. I’ll find another.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel quickly knotted his tie. “Let’s go. Maybe your job will be saved, yet.”

“C’mon. I’ll walk you out.” Dean picked up his coat, and unlocked the door. Castiel followed him out, through the dark, empty halls, to the parking lot.

When they were outside, Castiel put the cigarette to his lips, pulled out his lighter.

“Cas,” Dean said, grimacing. “Do you have to?”

“What?”

“Do you have to smoke?”

Castiel frowned. “Oh. Right,” he said, and put the lighter back in his pocket. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and slid it back into the carton. 

They got to his truck, and Dean scowled at it. “Ah, hell, Cas. Every time I see this thing it looks worse.”

“It’s fine. It still… goes. Still runs.”

“Yeah, I bet hardly.” Dean leaned close to him, not quite touching him. “Um… you still wanna do somethin’ tomorrow? Right?”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “Of course.”

Dean smiled, looking a little relieved. “Good.”

Castiel squinted. “If this is the last time I see you, I’ll be very disappointed.”

“It won’t be. What time tomorrow? Six okay?”

“Six is fine.”

“You, uh… you’ll send me your address?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Dean nodded, but made no move to leave. Then he said, “Come home with me.”

“What?” Castiel chuckled. “Don’t you have to work?”

“Fuck it.” Dean shook his head. “Fuck that job. I want you again.”

Castiel took a deep breath. Yes, he wanted that very much. “I don’t think so.”

“Then take me home with you.”

“ _No,”_ Castiel said. Ridiculous. Like they were outside of a club. “Not tonight.”

Dean grinned at him. “Fine. Have it your way.” He turned, and walked off toward the student lot, then looked behind him and called, “Thursday!” over his shoulder.

Castiel gave him a wave, and lit his cigarette.

Dean made him feel like something wild. Like something out of control. He couldn’t tell, yet, if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Child abandonment, Depression, Anxiety, Substance abuse, Castiel being sensitive. 
> 
> Come say hi on my watertrash tumblr. Taraxacumwine dot tumblr dot com. 
> 
> Feed me feedback.


	3. love and sex.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember not to confuse the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for leaving kudos and subscribing... I'd love it if you'd leave a comment and tell me your thoughts... :) 
> 
> TW at the bottom. 
> 
> XOXO, Rosemary

_And I'll leave with anyone this night_  
_And I'll kiss anyone tonight  
_ _Am I the only one you see?_

**Present time, present day.**

Dean woke late the next morning; he could tell by the sun streaming in the window, sneaking past the blinds. He turned away from it, closing his eyes. The sunbeams were like knives stabbing directly into his eyeballs. He laid there, in too much pain, too nauseated to move. Thankfully, after a few minutes the sun went behind the clouds, and he cracked his eyes open. It was almost 9:30, which shocked him. He couldn’t remember the last time he woke up after 9AM. Even Cas was already up – Dean could hear him banging around downstairs, trying to be “quiet.”

Dean’s mouth tasted like battery acid, and his head was pounding like an eight-year-old on a drum set. He crawled out of bed like a snail, and spat in the sink a few times, then brushed his teeth. He dry-swallowed some ibuprofen, and then braced his hands on the sink and took a few deep, slow breaths before chasing it with a mouthful of water from the tap.

He’d had nightmares last night, fucking awful shit. It’d been a while since he’d dreamed of that night. That night, that night, that night.

After he’d woken up, made a fool of himself by puking his guts up, Cas had put him back to bed, held him until he’d fallen asleep, and Dean had finally dreamed of nothing at all. Dreamless sleep was a mercy.

He went back into the bedroom and sat on the bed, waiting a minute for the room to stop swimming before he grabbed a sweatshirt off of a clean laundry basket on the floor, and pulling it on. It was a little too small, one of Cas’, but that was okay. He liked it; it smelled like him.

Cas was at the stove when Dean shuffled down the kitchen. Dean stood in the doorway and watched him for a moment; his messy hair, his wrinkled pajamas, his slim, muscular arms, his (Dean grinned) nice ass, his long, tan legs, his shapely bare feet.

Dean leaned his head against the wall. It was cool against his skin. “I’m an idiot,” he said.

Cas glanced over his shoulder, giving him a wane smile. His cheek was still a little pink from the pillow; he hadn’t been up long. “Well. You said it, not me.”

Dean sank down at the table, resting his head in his hands. A moment later, Cas set a mug of black coffee in front of him.

“It’s all right,” Cas said, and kissed his hair. “We’ve all had one too may at some point, myself included. And I think you’re entitled.”

“’M sorry,” Dean said, miserably.

Cas squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t be. I’m sorry I let you stew in it all night. I was just… frustrated. I didn’t know how to talk to you about it, and I didn’t want to upset you more.”

Dean shook his head. “Didn’t wanna talk.” He wanted to drown himself and knock himself out. He wanted to soak into an alcohol-drenched stupor and block it all out. He was just grateful Cas didn’t rub his nose in it.

Cas returned to the stove, and scooped bacon and eggs on to a plate. He buttered two slices of toast, set it on top of the rest of the food, and placed the plate on the table in front of Dean. Dean eyed it warily.

“Relax,” Cas said. “I tasted it. It’s perfectly edible.”

“I dunno if I can stomach anything,” Dean said. Despite not eating since breakfast yesterday, he had absolutely no appetite.

“Try some of the toast at least.”

Dean picked up a piece of toast, swallowed around his dry mouth, and took a bite. When he didn’t immediately throw it up, he took another bite, and then his hunger came roaring back, thank God, and he ate some eggs and all of the bacon in relief.

“Have you thought at all about it?” Cas said, stirring cream and sugar into his own coffee. “About… what you want to do?”

Dean snorted. “No.” He paused, his foot jiggling under the table. “But I… dunno. I…” He took a deep breath. He wanted to see his father, wanted it more than anything. But thought of seeing him also terrified him. “I think I’ll say yes. I don’t think saying no would feel right.”

Cas nodded, moving his food around on his plate. “Okay,” he said, his face suspiciously blank.

“What?”

Cas shook his head. “Nothing.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and snapped a piece of bacon in half. “You don’t want to.”

“Dean…” Cas sighed, and stopped whatever he was about to say. Then he said, “I want to do what you want to do.” A muscle worked in his jaw, and his grip was white-knuckled on his fork. “I don’t have an opinion one way or the other.”

_Sure you don’t._ Dean shoved some more food in his mouth, and then moved his foot over to hook around Cas’ ankle. Cas looked at him and gave him a small smile.

“You still like me, right?” Dean said.

Cas laughed quietly, poking at his eggs. “I suppose.”

Dean leaned his head on Cas’ shoulder, and Cas easily wrapped an arm around him. Dean’s hand went to the back of Cas’ head, his fingers finding the long, thin scar under his hair, along his skull, and Dean tucked his head under Cas’ chin.

***

Food, caffeine, ibuprofen: the world’s cure-all. By 11AM, Dean felt considerably better. Still groggy, still gross, but functional. He checked his phone for messages from the garage, but there was nothing, and no news is good news.

A text from Charlie: _what you doin?_

_From Dean: sick as a dog. Drank too much last night._

_From Charlie: without me! I’m hurt!_

_From Dean: sorry. it was a mistake and I regret everything._

He changed into soft, worn jeans and an old tee-shirt. Then he put Cas’ sweatshirt back on.

Cas was reclined on the couch with his nose in a book, and Dean watched him for a moment as he came down the stairs, thinking about what he’d said the night before. _Everything will be better in the morning._ Maybe that was true. Maybe he could tackle this. Dean had always felt worse at night, ever since he was an anxious kid, waking up once an hour in whatever roach-infested apartment or hotel they were squatting in, wandering around to make sure his dad was still there, still breathing, before he could calm down and go back to sleep. 

He longed, suddenly and fiercely, for his brother. Someone who’d gone through the shit with him, who he could talk to about it honestly and openly, no sugar-coating or sanitizing. But he couldn’t talk to Sam about Dad. Nothing made Sam shut down like the mention of John Winchester. Even now, both of them adults, with partners and friends and families and houses, it was like dealing with a pissed-off teenager again.

Dean remembered once, a few years after Dad had dropped them off at Bobby’s for good. Dean had called Dad on his birthday, desperate to talk to him, to hear his voice, even after everything that had happened, and Dad had just slurred, _“Where’s Sam? Lemme talk to him.”_

Dean had taken the phone to Sam, told him, _“Dad’s on the phone.”_ Sam had been shitty and belligerent, refusing to talk to him, and then he’d taken the phone and turned it off, right there, without saying a word. _“Sam!”_ Dean had said, horrified, angry. “ _He’s still our Dad.”_

Sam had gotten close to him, and said, venomously, “ _I don’t give a shit.”_ That had been Sam’s firm stance on Dad thereafter.

Dean looked down at his watch, ran his thumb over the clock face. He’d had such a shit time learning how to read it, remembered Dad talking him through it, remembered him wrapping the thing around his wrist. _A man needs a watch._

Cas noticed his presence in the room, looked up at him, letting his book fall open on his lap. “What is it?”

Dean realized he was still staring. He walked over to the couch and sat beside Cas, and pulled his feet on to the couch with him. “I’m gonna…” Dean said. “I’m gonna call ‘em. I’m gonna tell ‘em that we’re. We’re comin’.’

Cas watched him for a moment, then nodded. “All right.”

Dean looked at him. “You gotta say in this, too. If you don’t wanna go, tell me now.”

Cas fixed him with a tight stare. “I will not be the reason you don’t seen your father. I think you have more than enough of those already.” He tossed his book onto the coffee table and climbed off of the couch, then walked off toward the office. “Just make the call if you’re going to,” he said, over his shoulder.

_Great,_ Dean thought, shaking his head. _Fuckin’ perfect._

All right, then. If Cas didn’t care, then they were going. Dean yanked his cell phone out of his pocket.

_From Charlie: Want to see a movie or something? I’m bored to tears._

Dean ignored the message, and dialed the Milligan house. The phone rang and rang, and he prayed for an answering machine so he could hang up, having called Cas’ bluff and given himself more time.

And then a woman answered the phone. “ _Hello?”_ She sounded distant and breathy, half-asleep.

_Fuck._ “Hi. Uh, hello,” he said. “Um. Is… this Kate?”

“ _Mmh…”_ The woman cleared her throat. “ _Who’s this?”_

“This is, uh. Dean,” he said. “W-Winchester,” he added.

“ _Oh! Wow, um. Hi,”_ she said. “ _Sorry, Dean. I’m sorry. I worked last night; you just woke me up.”_

“Uh… okay. Sorry.” Dean waited a moment. “So… is my Dad around?”

“ _Oh, no, he’s out right now. Can I… help you?”_

Dean swallowed around the cotton is his throat. “I… Cas. Told me that you… you called.”

_“Right! I did. I was hoping that maybe you and Cas would be able to come and spend Christmas with John and I. And Adam, of course. I would love to see you, and so would Adam. He’d loved to meet his older brother. And, and John misses you, too.”_

“Really?” It popped out of Dean’s mouth like a soap bubble, and, ashamed, he closed his lips quickly. “I mean, uh… Whe-when were you thinking? We don’t have anything planned yet. So, we might be… we might be able to come.”

They hammered out the plans quickly. Dean was eager to be off the phone with her, and he wondered if she felt the same. He finally hung up after asking Kate to tell John to call him.

Okay. Well… there you go. They were going.

Shit. They were going.

Suddenly half-panicked, he got up and went into the office to find Cas sitting at his desk, thumbing through a file of papers.

Cas looked up at him. “So?” he said, his face tempered and calm.

“22nd through the 26th,” Dean said.

Cas nodded. “All right.” He looked back at the file.

“They wanted us to stay with them. They’ve got a, uh. A guest room.” 

Cas grimaced, rolling his eyes, and then quickly schooled his features into a blank nothing. “Very well.”

Dean felt exposed as a broken tooth. “You, uh… you pissed?”

Cas shook his head. “No,” he said, slightly poisonous. That was a yes. Cas didn’t say anything else, leaving Dean hovering awkwardly in front of the desk like a student waiting to be disciplined.

This wasn’t going to work. He felt like an asshole. “Jesus, Cas. Look-…”

“I have work to do,” Cas said, pointedly.

Dean stopped short, and groped wildly for something to say. “Oh. Uh… okay. I. Uh. We need… groceries. So… I’m gonna hit the store.”

“Great.” Cas looked at the computer, put his back to Dean.

“Great,” Dean echoed, and left the room, his face prickling. He shoved his feet into his shoes, feeling like he had fucked something up but not grasping exactly what. He grabbed his cell phone and replied to Charlie’s earlier text.

_From Dean: Yeah. What movie u thinkin?_

_From Charlie: fuck. Too lazy to go anywhere. Come over?_

Driving always made him feel better. His car was his beloved, obsidian-black Chevrolet Impala, which had belonged to his father until he gave it to Dean (more or less) when he was eighteen. Sitting behind the wheel felt like home, calmed him down. The rumble of the engine was like a lullaby. He drove to Charlie’s house, a small yellowish rambler than she shared with her longtime girlfriend, Dorothy. He realized he was still wearing Cas’ sweatshirt, and he pulled the neck up over his nose while he drove. It smelled like their fruity laundry detergent that Cas insisted on, and like Cas’ aftershave, his lotion.

When he pulled in to Charlie’s driveway, he almost sent Cas a text – _Will you just tell me what I did?_ But he immediately deleted it, and climbed out of the car, slamming the door hard. He flinched when it shut, and immediately reached back to run a hand along the roof, the edge of the door.

“Sorry, Baby,” he said, and went up the drive to Charlie’s door. He knocked and then walked in – the door was hardly ever locked. “Yo!” he called out.

“Shit,” Charlie was sitting on the couch in leggings and a faded _U of Chicago_ sweatshirt. “Why you gotta knock like a cop?” she said, and threw a pillow at him. Her throw flopped, and the pillow hit the floor a foot away from him with a muffled _poof._

“Sorry.” Dean picked up the pillow, and tossed it back to her, then kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the couch by her feet.

“How you feeling?” she said, pulling her feet up to make room.

“Ugh. Like I got hit by a truck.”

“You need a shot or something?” Charlie said, and chuckled.

Dean shook his head. “Nah.” He looked around the small living room. Charlie’s house was cozy and a little cramped, lots of nerdy art and posters on the walls, lots of fluffy pillows on the couch and chairs. “Where’s Dorothy?”

“In the office. Working. Ignoring me.” She studied him for a moment. “Everything okay? You look kinda… bummy.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah. It’s fine. Just…” He shook his head. “Cas. Bein’ cranky. No biggie.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She sat up, adjusting her rainbow socks. “You wanna bitch about it?”

He shook his head again. “Nah.”

“Good-good. Now, decision time.” She picked up the remote to her smart TV, and dialed to a menu. “Lord of the Rings… or Lord of the Rings?”

Dean liked that about Charlie. He could come over and hang out, they could talk or not talk, they could just sit in a companionable silence and watch movies. She never dug at him, never made him feel dumb or stunted.

“Dealer’s choice,” he said, and put his feet up on the coffee table.

They made it through the extended _Fellowship_ and _Two Towers_ before Dean tapped out. He realized with a start that it was dark out, and he still hadn’t actually gone to the grocery store.

His phone, which he’d been determinedly ignoring since he arrived, now glowed with unread texts from an hour ago.

_From Cas: I’m guessing you’re not at the grocery store. You’re not dead in a ditch, are you?_

And then a few minutes later.

_From Cas: Will you come home for dinner?_

Dean sent back: _Home soon. Still have to go to the store._

“Hey, I gotta split,” he said, standing up. He stretched, feeling completely groggy.

“Huh?” Charlie looked up at him with glazed eyes.

“I gotta go. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Oh, yeah. By-y-ye,” she said, and gave him a wave before looking back at the TV and starting _Return of the King._

Dean walked out in the cold, dark air, shivering. Shit, what a waste of his day off. He climbed into his car and drove to the grocery store, the Blue Oyster Cult tape blasting through the speakers to wake himself up.

Cas preferred the dinky, local shop, but Dean drove to the sprawling football stadium-sized Supermart out of spite. It may have been a mistake – the place was a madhouse, cars crisscrossing around each other to get a spot as close to the door as possible. It only fueled Dean’s sour mood. He gave up, and parked at the very end of the lot, as far away from the huge entrance doors as he could get, deciding that the walk would do him good.

The inside wasn’t much better. The place was packed to the gills with people doing their Christmas shopping, getting food for their gaggles of kids, family overstaying their welcome over the holidays. Dean grabbed a cart, and, just his luck, it turned out to have a fucked-up wheel that seized up if he tried to turn left too hard.

He dragged the cart along into the bread aisle. While picking out hamburger buns, Dean wondered. Did normal people ever get to the point where they stopped worrying their partner would bail? That they would leave for good for a dumb reason? For an argument? Did people ever feel secure? Or… safe?

He threw the whole wheat buns into the cart full-force. This was stupid. Dean _did_ feel secure. He _did_ fee safe. He was acting fucking pathetic, like an insecure goddamn teenager.

Dean firmly resolved to sit Cas down, and demand to talk about this trip. He would just… say something. He’d just say, _Cas. We’re gonna talk about this and you’re just gonna have to deal with it._ It wasn’t like Cas just going to up and leave because Dean forced an issue. And wasn’t Cas the one always wheedling Dean to talk more about how he was feeling?

And if Cas didn’t want to go, then they wouldn’t go! Simple as that! Or maybe Cas could just fucking stay home, see if Dean cared.

“Goddammit,” Dean hissed under his breath. This was bullshit. Cas didn’t get to make him feel like this over a single, tiny request to go see his Dad.

Dean blew out a hard breath. Okay. Fine. Technically, it was more complicated than that. Dean had told Cas exactly what had happened with his dad, had told him almost everything, had told him more than he’d ever even told Bobby. Just a few years ago, while they were laying in bed, and Cas had fresh stitches in the back of his head. Of course Cas didn’t want to go see him.

But wasn’t that what the holidays were for? Seeing family? Forgiveness and togetherness and shit? Not that Cas would know anything about that. His parents hardly spoke to him now. Just the occasional, stilted phone call, ever since Cas dared to tell them that he was living with a man. And where did Cas get off, anyway, giving Dean shit about his Dad when his parents were such dicks?

Dean remembered the last time they’d called – the last time he’d heard it, anyway. It was Cas’ mom, probably, she was a real Nazi. His dad wasn’t as bad; just neutral and useless, kneeling to Queen Naomi for whatever she wanted. Cas had mentioned something a while ago, some distant trouble with their marriage, an affair when Cas was a kid or something. He wouldn’t elaborate on it, didn’t like to talk about it, but Dean had a feeling that had something to do with Cas’ dad being fully pussy-whipped. Regardless, his mom was a damn snake. Dean had hovered outside the office, eavesdropping and ashamed of himself for doing it, hearing the tone in Cas’ half-conversation get more and more frustrated. Finally, he heard Cas say, “If you… _Listen to me._ He isn’t doing anything to me I don’t want done. If… I’ll stop being _vulgar_ when you stop prying into my bedroom. If you say that about him again, I’m hanging up. I… _If you say something like that about him one more time, I’m hanging up._ …Very well, I’m hanging up.” Dean heard him dial off, and slam his phone down on his desk. Then he picked up and slammed it down again, and again, and Dean moved quickly away from the door, his heart in his throat.

A woman was side-eyeing him over the cabbage, and Dean realized that he was grumbling to himself like a crazy man on the street. He bit his lips together and finished his shopping, making sure to grab another rack of beer, and some mid-high-priced fancy red wine that he’d give to Cas as a peace-offering. Not that he had any reason to make peace – Cas should really be making peace with him.

Or maybe it was Dean who should just back out. Out of the whole situation, not just Christmas. Move out, go back to living alone. Being alone. No ties, no responsibilities. Float from job to job, say fuck it to a career, to an education. Who cares? It had all been so much easier when he was alone.

No… that wasn’t right. It hadn’t been easier. Just simpler. Everything was simpler when he was on his own. He could drop everything and blow dodge whenever, didn’t have to worry about anything. Living like his father had, though – it hadn’t sat right with him. He tried to imagine, really imagine, packing up and walking out that night, just packing his car with essentials and leaving.

The thought made his insides go watery. Leaving his home, his job, leaving Cas was absolutely not something he wanted to do. Not now, not ever.

Dean stood in the mile-long checkout line for almost a half-hour, paid for the food, and carted it back to the car. Was he ever going to feel good about this? Like one wrong move wouldn’t scare Cas off?

Goddammit! Hadn’t he settled this with himself already? Cas wasn’t gonna leave him. Dean wasn’t gonna leave Cas. But they’d have to talk this shit out. And wasn’t that Cas’ line, that Dean wasn’t talking to him enough?

Dean threw the food into the trunk. This was fucking ridiculous. He felt like he was caught in a whirlpool, his thoughts swirling around in his head and settling nowhere. Why did Cas giving him a cold shoulder have turn into Dean having a whole existential crisis about their entire fucking relationship?

By the time he pulled into their driveway, he had spun himself up so much that he didn’t know what the hell was going to do when he got inside. Dean hefted most of the paper bags and the beer rack up into his arms and trundled up to the house. To his pleasant surprise, Cas met him at the door.

“Can I help?” Cas said, taking one of the bags from his arms.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

“Are there any more bags?”

“Yeah, there’s one or two in the trunk.”

They put the groceries away in silence. Dean’s entire body was alight with nerves, waiting for Cas to say something, tell him off, _anything_. Cas was folding the bags to shove them in the recycling when he finally spoke.

“Did you buy this?” he said nodding to the red wine on the counter.

“Yeah,” Dean said, closing the cupboard. “Is it good? I wasn’t sure.”

“Yes.” Cas picked up the bottle, examining the label. “I like this one a lot.”

“You want some?” Dean said, gesturing to the wine glasses where they hung on their stand.

Cas set the bottle down. “Maybe with dinner, I think.”

“Sure.”

“I was… not…” Cas sighed, and turned to look at him. “I was unpleasant to you earlier. I know you wanted to talk about Minnesota, and I wasn’t… I should have been more open to you.”

Dean’s body flooded with relief, so fast that his knees got a little loose. “It’s okay, Cas.”

“No, it isn’t. I give you hell about shutting me out. It’s not fair for me to do it to you. Not about something like this.” He tossed the bags into the recycling, and Dean felt his face warm. “May I tell you the truth?”

“Course,” Dean said.

Cas leaned against the counter, and looked at a spot on the wall. “I don’t want to meet your father.” He said it with a harsh finality, and Dean’s face warmed even more. “I have no interest in meeting the man who…” He shook his head.

“Who fucked me up?” Dean offered, giving him a half-smile.

“Who caused you so much pain.” Cas’ voice was actually a little rough.

“Ah, Cas…” Dean scrubbed his hands over his face.

Cas looked at him, and then reached out and wrapped his hand tight in Dean’s. “I’d be fine if you decided you never wanted to see him again. But, quite frankly, it isn’t up to me.” He met Dean’s eyes. “If you want to do this, then I’m with you. A hundred percent.” And then he added, “And you won’t hear another bad word from me about it.”

Dean felt like a thousand pounds had lifted off of his shoulders. “Thank you,” he said, quietly, and he lifted Cas’ hand to up to hold it against his cheek. Cas’ hand was cool against his warm face. “I know how you feel. But I need to go. I need to see him. It’s been so long, I just… I need to go.”

Cas nodded. “Then we’ll go.” He took a deep breath, and said, “I think I’ll have that glass of wine.”

He uncorked the bottle and let it breathe while Dean started dinner – burgers, mostly because he thought it would help warm the air with Cas, but now he wanted them himself. Cas sat at the table while Dean cooked, sipping his pinot.

“Do you want a beer?” Cas said. Dean snorted.

“No, thanks,” he said, nudging the burgers in the pan. “I don’t think I’m ever drinking again after last night.”

“Mm-hmm.” Cas, ever the lightweight, was already pink in the face on his first glass. He held out the wine glass to Dean. “Do you want to try this?”

Dean stepped away from the stove and took the stem in between his fingers, feeling awkward holding something so delicate as a wine glass. He sloshed the deep red liquid back and forth. He never cared much for wine, even when he was bartending. 

“It’s pretty, I guess,” he said, taking an experimental sniff.

“Just try it, chicken.”

Dean took a sip; it was dry and disgusting, like vinegary, rotten grapes, and he had to choke it down. “Yuck. How do you drink this stuff?” he said, and passed him back the glass.

“It’s for a more mature palette, I think.”

Dean let out a snort. “My palette’s plenty mature, pal,” he said, and laid slices of cheese across the burgers. “I’ve only been drinkin’ since I was twelve.”

“Oh, no,” Cas said. “Don’t tell me that! That’s awful.”

“Well, have some more of that wine. Might put you in a better mood.”

“Ass.”

Dean ended up pulling one beer out of the new rack and cracking it open. A bit of the hair of the dog never hurt anyone.

***

It was late by the time they finished dinner. Dean washed the dishes while Cas dried, still sipping on his third glass.

“We could just leave these for tomorrow, you know,” Cas said, shoving the pan into the cupboard. 

“Or,” Dean said. “I could just do them now, and then they’re done.”

“Or,” Cas said, and pressed himself intently against Dean’s side. “You could come relax on the sofa with me.”

“Mmmh…” Dean leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. “Let me finish this, and then we can relax.”

“You are so weird. Can you even sleep if the kitchen isn’t spotless?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” he said. “I just like the house clean, ya know? You’re just so messy.” Cas just didn’t get it. He’d grown up in a huge house, wanted for nothing. Maids and chefs and gardeners. He’d never know the strange joy of living in back-to-back hotel rooms, and suddenly, one day, an apartment with an oven and a stove, with places for dishes and pans, a refrigerator for fresh food. Simple pleasures like mowing the lawn, doing laundry in your own machine, doing dishes in your own kitchen – he’d never understand. “Now quit your whinin’ and help me finish this.”

Cas laughed quietly, and took a wet plate from him to dry. “All right.”

They finished the dishes, and Dean washed his hands while Cas dumped the last of the wine into his glass, then drew Dean into the living room by the hand.

Dean threw himself down on the couch and spread out, comfortable and warm. Cas set his glass on the coffee table and sat beside him, almost in his lap.

“Well, hi,” Dean said, sliding a hand around his waist.

“Hello.”

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing. I just wanted your attention.”

Dean laughed, feeling a little giddy. Cas had one hell of a hold on him. “Well, you got it.” He laid back on the couch, taking Cas with him.

“That’s better,” Cas said, snuggling against his shoulder.

“You’re awful touchy-feely tonight.”

“I just want to be close to you.”

Dean felt his face flame. “You fuckin’ softie.”

Cas chuckled, his deep voice rumbling against Dean’s chest. Dean let his hand move up and down Cas’ back, rubbing gently. Cas’ hand wandered over Dean’s chest, his shoulder, up his throat. His fingers caught over Dean’s stubble, then traced his lips. Dean kissed his fingertips.

“Would you like to watch a movie?” Cas said.

“Nah,” Dean said. He shifted a little so he could see Cas’ face. “Just wanna look at you.”

“Hmm. Is that a flirtation?” Cas said, shaking his head.

“A _flirtation?_ ” Dean said. “You don’t know the meaning of the word flirtation.”

“Oh, boy,” Cas said, and started to sit up. “Where’s the rest of that wine?”

Dean grabbed him, pulled him back down, then slid a hand up into his hair and pulled him in for a kiss. Cas’ hand curled into a fist on his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Cas said, smiling. He reached up and ran a thumb over Dean’s jaw.

“Whatever I want,” Dean murmured. He slid a hand up between Cas’ legs to cup his groin, and Cas sucked in a hard breath. Dean could practically see his pupils blow out.

“You better be able to finish what you start, Winchester,” Cas practically purred, taking Dean’s hand and pressing it more firmly against his fly. Dean pulled him down to kiss him again, and Cas pushed a hand up under Dean’s shirt.

“You,” Dean breathed, “are so predictable.”

“What?” Cas rasped.

“’Oh, Dean… I just want to be close to you… I just want to cuddle on the couch…’” Dean mimicked. “Please. You’re just tryin’ to get laid.”

Cas kneeled up to stare at him.

“You know, you could just say, ‘Dean, hurry up with the dishes, I’m horny as hell over here.’”

“You’re unbelievable,” Cas said, and then, incredibly, jammed a hand under Dean’s armpit to tickle him. Dean made a decidedly unmasculine sound and jerked away, almost pushed Cas off the couch.

“You asshole! You fuckin’…” Dean said, and started to laugh, holding both of Cas’ hands in his to stop him from trying again. “You goofy fucker.”

“You should have known better than to buy my favorite red wine,” Cas said, and leaned forward to kiss him.

“Apparently! It turns you into an animal!”

“Come upstairs. Let me make it up to you,” Cas purred, and then slid off of Dean’s lap, and walked over to the stairs.

“Uh… yup. Mm-hmm.” Dean climbed off of the couch and almost tripped up the first step in his haste to follow. Cas led him upstairs, and shut the bedroom door behind them.

Dean let Cas pull his shirt off, take his jeans and underwear down. He laid on the bed naked while Cas stripped, Dean’s eyes raking over his toned chest and stomach, his swelling cock and strong thighs. Fuck. Dean grasped his own cock for a moment, suddenly too aroused to do anything else.

Cas climbed into bed with him, leaned over him to grab the lube from the bedside table. Dean savored the closeness, the skin and warmth, pulled Cas in for another kiss.

“Aren’t you sweet tonight?” Cas said. He got his hands a little slick, and then grasped both of their cocks, pushing them together.

“Uhhhnn…” Dean groaned, grasping Cas’ wrist, not pushing him away or pulling him closer, just touching. “I’m… huh… always sweet.”

“What do you want?” Cas breathed into his ear.

Dean licked his lips. “Will you fuck me?”

“Mmm…” Cas sighed into his throat. “You’re not too tired?”

“No. Shit, no.”

“Good.”

“You’re not too drunk?”

Cas snorted. “I should think not.” He slid one hand down under Dean’s cock, reaching back behind his balls, and Dean spread his legs apart. Cas’ fingers found his hole, and he worked one finger inside while Dean tried not to squirm too much, wanting more, wanting it quickly. And then, slowly, another finger was pushed inside, and Dean sighed, rocking into the burn. Cas withdrew his fingers, and said, “Turn over. Give me your ass.”

Dean shivered, and rolled over to put his back to Cas, who slid up flush behind him. Cas pushed his fingers back up against Dean’s hole, and Dean moved his legs apart to give him better access. Cas pushed two fingers back inside him _hard,_ and Dean’s whole body sparked alive, his cock jumping. Dean groaned deep, wrapping his fingers around his cock.

“Too rough?” Cas said against his throat.

“Ugh, _fuck you,”_ Dean said, and pushed back against his fingers, “you know it’s not too rough. Hurry up.”

Cas stretched his fingers apart, and rocked them in and out. “Should I get a condom?”

“Nah, no, I’m gonna shower. C’mon.”

Cas kissed the back of his neck, and kept working him open, finally sliding in a third finger, making Dean gasp, his legs shake. He rocked back, wanting _more._

“Are you ready?” Cas murmured. How? How did he keep himself together when he turned Dean into a moaning mess?

“Yes, goddammit, fuck me!” Dean snapped, pushing his hips back against Cas’. Cas’ erection bumped against his ass, hard and warm. “Uhhh… fuck.”

“You want it?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Cas’ hand went around his hip to cup his cock, and then he pushed it up against Dean’s stomach, making Dean groan. “ _Oh,_ ” Cas whispered. “You do want it.”

“What?” Dean said, trying to laugh, even as Cas’ fingers sent another spike of pleasure through him. “Don’t believe me?”

Cas didn’t respond, just squeezed his dick against, and then shifted, slowing removing his fingers, and replacing them with the blunt head of his cock. Dean urged him along, pushing his hips back, savoring the feeling, the burn, the fullness. Cas pushed his cock in until his hips were against Dean’s ass – not as deep as Dean liked, but still nice.

“Good?” Cas said.

“Yeah. Yeah, good. Go.”

Cas started to thrust, slow and sweet. Dean whimpered a little, feeling his face getting impossibly warmer, his cock straining up against his stomach. It was good, not enough to get him there, but still good. Cas ran a hand up Dean’s side, to his chest, and tweaked one nipple, making Dean’s entire body flash hot. Cas took hold of Dean’s cock and started to work him nice and slow, almost teasing him.

Fuck. It wasn’t enough, and Dean wanted to cum. “Mmmh.” Dean’s arm was starting to strain from holding his leg up. “Can we move?”

“Of course.” Cas pulled out of him, and Dean let his leg drop. “I know what you want,” Cas murmured. “Hands and knees. Let me see your hole.”

“Jeezus, Cas,” Dean said, blushing hotly. He crawled up on his hands and knees, and then went down to his elbows when Cas pressed on the back of his shoulders.

Cas’ thumb was against Dean’s hole, teasing him a little. “Yes,” Cas murmured, and then nudged his cock slowly back into Dean’s hole, and then pushed deep inside, making Dean groan. “ _Perfect.”_ Dean tilted his hips as Cas started to thrust, trying to get the right angle. Almost, almost, a few glances of pleasure, and then…

“Oh! _Uhh…”_ Dean ground back against Cas’ cock when he hit the right spot. Cas hummed quietly.

“There?”

“Fu-u-uck yes, right there,” Dean groaned into the pillows, clenching his fists into the sheets. Cas held Dean’s hips and started to nail him, right where it made Dan’s vision go white, snapping his hips hard, rocking the headboard against the wall. “Oh, fuck… oh, fuck… uh… _uh…”_ Beautiful heat spread through him like warm syrup, and Dean heard himself making his horrible, high-pitched cum noises. “ _Gonna… uh… gonna… fuckmefuckme uh uh uh…”_ His body clamped down around Cas’ cock and he came hard, stripping his cock with one hand. Castiel fucked him through it, going like a piston, until Dean slumped over like a sack of sand. _“Shit!”_ he hissed.

Castiel let out a self-satisfied sigh, pausing for a moment while Dean gathered himself.

“God damn. Okay. Good. Go. C’mon,” Dean urged.

Cas’ hand rested on the small of Dean’s back, his cock still hard inside Dean. A few more thrusts, a few more whispers of pleasure, and then it was starting to get too sensitive, almost starting to hurt. Dean was almost at the point of tapping out when Cas’ movement started to get erratic. “I’m going to _cum…”_ Cas groaned, his body stiffening. “Going to cum inside you…”

“Cas,” Dean got out. “Castiel. In me, cum in me… fuckin’ cum in me, Castiel…”

Cas moaned, his fingers latching on to Dean’s sides just this side of painful, and he felt Cas’ cum splash his insides.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas murmured, running a hand up and down Dean’s back. He pulled out slowly, and laid down beside him. Dean curled up close to him, relishing the afterglow, his heartbeat slowing. Cas kissed his hair, rubbed his back, and Dean lounged in the nice, floaty feeling in his head.

Ugh. There it was… the lube-cum soup working its way out of him. Dean sat up, and climbed off the bed. “Atta boy, tiger,” Dean said, and smacked Cas’ on the thigh.

“Ow!” Cas squawked, slapping Dean’s hand away from him. “You _ass_.”

Dean let out a peal of laughter on his way to the bathroom. He didn’t know how chicks did it – the feeling of _stuff_ dripping out of him made him cringe. He wiped himself up on the toilet and then climbed into the shower. A moment later, he heard Cas in the bathroom behind him, washing his hands, and then going back to bed.

After rinsing off, Dean returned the bedroom and found a pair of Cas’ boxers and a tee-shirt to put on. Cas, usually a night owl, was solidly boozed-out and asleep, curled up on his side under the blankets.

“Cas,” Dean said quietly. “Do you remember if I locked up?”

Cas stirred. “Hmm?”

“Did I lock up?”

“Mmh.”

Dean bent down and kissed his cheek. “You’re useless.”

He went back downstairs, and was glad he did. In his haste to get to the main event, he’d neglected to turn off any lights or set the alarm. He returned to the bedroom, set his own alarm clock (Monday tomorrow already, how the fuck had that happened?) and climbed back into the warm sheets. It wasn’t very late, but the bed was so inviting, especially the space next to Cas. And Dean was tired from his shit sleep the night before.

He didn’t need to justify an early night, did he? Dean nosed under the covers, pushed against Cas’ body. Cas shifted, one arm circling around Dean’s waist, pulling him closer, and Dean covered Cas’ hand with his own.

***

**Six years ago.**

Dean pulled up outside of Castiel’s house in a black muscle car, slick and cool, engine roaring like a wild cat. Castiel counted to a slow ten before getting up when Dean rang the bell. He answered the door, keeping his face placid, not-too-eager, and Dean was standing there with one hand on the door jamb, in dark jeans and a leather jacket.

Picked up for a date by the coolest boy in school. Castiel almost blushed at the absurdity.

“Hello, Dean,” he said.

“You look great,” Dean said, giving him a heavy once-over. Castiel debated just pulling him inside now, but forced himself to slow down, resist his urges.

“Thank you,” he said, coolly. “So do you. I like your jacket.”

Dean’s face actually colored a little, and he stood up straighter. “You ready?”

“Of course.” Castiel pulled on his coat and locked the door behind him, then followed Dean out to his car.

“You got a nice little house, here,” Dean said, standing back to observe the house in the low light.

“You have a nice _car._ This is incredible.” Castiel said. He knew next to nothing about cars, but it was obvious that this beast was maintained with care.

“Have you never seen her before?” Dean said, unlocking the passenger-side door for Castiel.

“No,” Castiel said. “You always leave me at my truck.”

“Well, welcome to my Baby.” Dean opened the door for him, and waved him in with a jokey bow. Castiel slid in, and Dean got into the driver side.

“So,” Castiel said. “Where to?”

“You been to that bar over on Occidental? Uh… Jack Rabbit’s?”

Castiel tried not to frown. It sounded sleezy, like the kind of place where waitresses had “uniforms” of bra-tops and hotpants. “No.”

“They’ve got pool, and, uh, good food. What do you think?”

“Sure.” Castiel chided himself. He needed to be more up for anything.

The bar turned out to be less-sleazy that he expected. There were a few fairly tame Playboy shots on the walls, but other than that, it seemed like any other adult-oriented bar and grill, with pool tables and darts.

“You play pool?” Dean said.

Castiel shrugged. “I can hold my own.”

“Do you wanna play?” He took his coat off, and he was in short sleeves again, and he grinned when he noticed Castiel looking.

“Uh…” Castiel blushed. “Sure.”

They got beers – an amber for Dean and a lager for Castiel. It wasn’t too terribly busy, and they were able to slide into a table without much of a wait.

“What are we playing for?” Castiel said, selecting a cue from the rack.

“Hmmm…” Dean racked up the balls, pushing his lips together. “Blow job?” He grinned, and then the grin fell off of his face in an instant. “No. No, that… sorry. Dumb joke. Stupid-…”

“All right,” Castiel said.

Dean stared at him, his lips parted in surprise. “What? Are you… what?”

Castiel felt his face warm, but he felt bold. “Oral sex. Winner receives.”

“Uh… uh…?” Dean snorted out a laugh, almost a giggle, his face going pink in the dim bar lighting. “O-Okay. I mean… really?”

Castiel gestured to the table for Dean to take his shot. “You talk big game, don’t you, Dean?”

Dean’s face was still pink, but he grinned, and bent over the table, lining up his shot. “I do a lot more than talk, sweetheart.” He took his shot, and the white ball shot like a bullet toward the pyramid of balls. It clacked them apart like a gunshot, the sound making Castiel jump, making his heart race.

“Oh, dear,” he said, watching the balls disappear into the holes. “I am in trouble, aren’t I?”

It wasn’t much of a contest. Castiel could handle himself well enough, but he was only able to sink one or so each time. Dean could hit two or three in one shot, and Castiel still felt like he was taking it easy on him.

“Best two out of three?” Dean said, when the last solid ball disappeared into the side pocket.

“I’m sorry. Did you just hustle me?” Castiel said, walking around the table to stand next to Dean. Dean grinned at him, resting the cue on the ground.

“When I hustle you, you’ll never know,” he said, with obvious pride.

Castiel picked up Dean’s beer, tossed the last of it back, and said, “Come on, then.”

Dean nearly dropped his cue in his haste to follow Castiel. The left the bar and got back into Dean’s car, and Castiel put a hand on Dean’s thigh, squeezing, and directed him to an empty strip mall parking lot. Dean parked near the edge of the parking lot in a particularly abandoned area, and sat back in his seat, laughing quietly.

“Turn off the engine,” Castiel said, still holding tight to Dean’s thigh. He wished Dean were wearing ripped jeans so he could slide his fingers into a tear, push them against his skin.

Dean turned off the engine, but left the radio on. “Cas, really,” he said. “I was completely kidding. You don’t gotta do this. Wanna go get some food?”

Castiel grabbed the lapels of Dean’s leather jacket, and pushed him against his seat. “Shut your mouth,” he said, and leaned forward and kissed him hard. Dean grunted, his hands going around Castiel’s waist to pull him closer. “I have hardly been able to think about anything but you for weeks,” he said, almost snarled, and kissed Dean again. Then he pulled back, keeping on hand on Dean’s chest to hold him against the seat, keep him from following. “Now, you’re going to stop trying to talk me out of it, and let me suck your pretty cock. Or do you really just want to go get some food?”

Dean groaned, his hands scrabbling for his belt. He shoved his fly open, and pushed his underwear down over his penis, his shaft already flushed and stiffening. Castiel bent over and pulled Dean’s cock deep into his mouth, swallowing around it, pulling him into his throat, feeling a rush of heat when Dean groaned deep and loud.

“Cas… _fuck,_ what the _fuck… oh…”_ Dean’s hand rested on the back of his neck, heavy and warm, protective, territorial. Castiel wrapped his fingers around the base of Dean’s cock, working the parts he couldn’t reach with his mouth. Dean’s cock was nicely sized, uncut, musky, salty, perfect.

Castiel pulled off for a moment, pressed his lips to the head of Dean’s cock, and said, “Playing me in pool. That turned you on.”

“Uh…” Dean groaned. His hand slid up into Castiel’s hair. “Y-Yeah. Fuckin’… chubbed up when you… you said ‘oral sex.’ Like a fuckin’ hungry dog.” He started to laugh, petting Castiel’s hair. “Couldn’t believe it. You’re so fuckin’ sexy.”

Castiel put his mouth back on Dean’s cock, sliding his foreskin back and sucking the tip of it first, until Dean’s thighs were trembling, before pulling him in deep again. Salty precum splashed on his tongue. Dean was so hard, he didn’t last much longer. His deep voice got a higher, quieter: “Gonna… ah… _ah… gonna… C-Cas!”_ He let out sweet whimpers as he came, shooting in to Castiel’s mouth, his hand clenched in the back of Castiel’s coat. “Fu-uh-uhck…” he choked out, thrusting shallowly into Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel waited until he stopped twitching, then sat up, pushed the door open, and spat better semen onto the gravel. He grabbed the water bottle out of the cupholder, took a drink, swished, and spat again. “Sorry. I really don’t care for the taste,” he said, sitting back in his seat. Dean was staring at him, glassy-eyed and red-faced. He adjusted his cock, still damp with Castiel’s saliva, putting it back in his briefs, and then he reached out to take hold of Castiel’s arm, pulling him over to Dean’s side of the seat.

Breathless, he said, “Lemme… lemme touch you, c’mere…” Dean undid Castiel’s belt and got his zipper down. He pushed a hand into Castiel’s pants, ran his hand down the length of Castiel’s cock. “Please, just wanna… just wanna touch you.” He kissed Castiel, open-mouthed and wet, and Castiel slung his arms around Dean’s neck to pull him closer. Sucking Dean off had made Castiel hard, and Dean’s hand was warm and rough, almost too intense at first. Dean pulled his hand out and spat on his palm, and Castiel took Dean’s wrist and guided his movements until he got the right rhythm, and then rocked into his hand, pushed Dean’s head down so that he would kiss his neck. He thrust against Dean’s hand, and came with Dean’s lips on his throat.

“Fuck yeah…” Dean murmured, and Castiel kissed his face, pulled him up so he could kiss Dean’s lips. Dean kissed him back enthusiastically, almost more so than before, and Castiel finally had to sit back for a moment to breathe. Making out with the coolest boy in school, in the hottest car, with his leather jacket. Castiel almost laughed.

Dean wiped his hands off with fast food napkins, and then produced a big bottle of hand sanitizer that he had stashed in his glovebox.

“What?” he said, when Castiel looked at him quizzically. “I’m tryin’ not to get the flu, aright?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Castiel said, and held out a hand for a pump of sanitizer. The smell of sex and antiseptic was overwhelming, and he rolled his window down for some fresh air. Dean started the car up, and the tape deck stuttered as the engine roared to life, then started up again, classic rock cutting in and out.

“Well. I’m starved,” Dean said, checking behind him before pulling out of the parking spot. “You hungry?”

Castiel laughed quietly, pulling his seatbelt into place, feeling boneless and serene. “Sure.” He pulled out his cigarettes, and Dean pointed at them.

“Uh-uh, pal. No way.”

Castiel groaned. “Please?” he said, like a petulant toddler. “Just one?”

“Nope. You can hop out and have one if you want, but don’t expect any more kisses from me tonight. Can still taste the one you had before I picked you up.”

“Wow.” Castiel frowned. “Really?”

“Can smell ‘em on you all the time. Fuckin’ hate ‘em.”

Castiel tutted, and put the cigarettes back into his pocket. “All right.”

“Sorry.” Dean glanced at him. “That was…” He huffed out a breath. “When… people drink more, you know. They smoke more. Just reminds me of rowdy, nasty drunks.”

“From the bar?” Castiel said.

“Mmh. Yeah.”

“All right, Dean,” he said again. “I get it.”

They went into a drive-thru, and Dean ordered them burgers and fries. They sat and talked about school – Dean told Castiel about his classes, Castiel gave him his opinion on the teachers. Dean talked about his two jobs – bartending nights, working in an auto shop during the day.

“Auto work is what I like best, though. But I’m only part time, so sometimes I make more bartending.” He shrugged. “You should let me look at that truck of yours sometime,” he said, around a mouthful of burger. “I get nervous thinkin’ about you drivin’ when there’s weather.”

“Really? You worry about me?”

Dean’s face went a little pink. “Well, shit. I hear you start it up after I walk you out. Sounds like the damn thing’s ‘bout to fall apart.”

Castiel laughed. “Maybe you should come with me when I buy something else. I don’t know if Old Faithful’s going to make it through to spring.”

“Yeah, you better bring me with you.” Dean reached across the seat, and stole one of Castiel’s fries. “Make sure they don’t take you for a ride.”

Dean made him feel young in the best way.

*** 

The next week was nothing but near-misses. Dean bartended every weekend, with sporadic shifts during the week, and then worked as a mechanic during the day Monday through Thursday. He also took occasional classes throughout the week, and the best that they could do was a chance conversation on the phone – Castiel didn’t see him once.

On Saturday night, Castiel was home alone, fully bored, unable to focus on a book, on grading, on mindless television. He pulled out his cell phone.

_From Castiel: How late are you working tonight?_

_From Dean: Midnight. Sorry_

Castiel turned his phone over a full circle in his hand, hesitating only a moment.

_From Castiel: Would you like to come over after your shift?_

_From Dean: Really??_

_From Castiel: Give me a call when you’re on your way in case I’ve fallen asleep._

_From Dean: Ok!!! Be there around 12:15?_

Castiel realized at once how incredibly impulsive that had been. He quickly washed the dishes that were crusting in the sink, folded up the blankets and arranged the pillows on his elephant sofa, straightened up the books on the coffee table, and then got into the shower and scrubbed himself thoroughly.

Not that he was expecting anything, of course. But, still. The implication of inviting someone over at midnight could not be denied.

The sheets were still relatively cleanish, so he made the bed and fluffed up the pillows, made it look nice and inviting. _Please, lay down on me._ Castiel selected his nicest joggers and a sweater that was perhaps a little nicer than would be used strictly for lounging around. _Yes, I always look this nice, at all times._

Ever the night owl, Castiel was still wide awake at 12:18 when he heard abrupt, loud knocking on the door. He sprang to his feet and opened the door, and there was Dean, weaving a little under the porchlight.

“Hey, Cas!” he said, a little too loud. “Sorry, I just realized I forgot to call. Did I wake you?” He walked past Castiel into the house, pulling off his coat.

“No. I wasn’t asleep.” Dean leaned into him and kissed him eagerly; he tasted like liquor. “Mmmh. Did you have a few tonight?”

Dean snorted out a laugh. “Let, a, um, a customer buy me a few shots. Right at the end of my shift. Was nervous about, um, comin’ over here.”

“What?” Castiel said. “Why?”

“’Cuz… you make me nervous, sometimes,” Dean admitted, and then his alcohol-flush deepened, like he’d said too much. He busied himself taking his shoes off.

“What?” Castiel said, almost laughing at the idea. “Why?”

Dean shrugged. “I… you’re just… different. From anyone I’ve ever been with before.” He looked around the living room, his gaze lingering on the sofa, the coffee table, the hardwood floors. “Can I… look around a little?”

“Please,” Castiel said. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

Dean walked into the living room, taking careful steps. “Nice rug,” he said, digging his toes into the plush, dark blue pile. Castiel sat on the sofa awhile Dean looked over at the art on the walls – a few sophisticated (Castiel thought) prints, some family photos, pictures of his niece and nephew. The large, full bookshelf.

“Would you like a drink?” Castiel said.

“Nah, I’ve probably had enough.” Dean wandered into the kitchen, and Castiel thanked the Lord that he’d done the dishes. He heard Dean look into the sunroom, which Castiel used half as an office, half as a dumping ground for files and papers that didn’t fit in his office at school. He heard the light click on and off in the bathroom. Dean came back into the living room, glanced into the closet under the stairs.

“No wife,” Castiel said, with a small smile. “Or husband,” he added.

“No! I wasn’t….” Dean blushed. “Just… I believe you. I’m just lookin’. It’s a nice house. But not, you know… too nice. Classy. You got nice things.” Dean sank onto the sofa next to him, slinging his arm over the back. “I saw you a coupla times. At school, ya know. I wanted to… go over. Say hi. But I… didn’t think you’d want me to.”

Castiel pressed his lips together, considering it. He hadn’t seen Dean, hadn’t even really looked for him. He felt inconsiderate. “I would love it if you came and said hello. I’d love to see you more often, period. As long as you’re discreet when we’re at the school.”

Dean smiled, looking almost shy. “Okay.”

Castiel moved closer to him on the couch, and kissed him. “Are you tired?”

“Ummm…” Dean gave him a lopsided grin. “I dunno. Are you tired?”

“Not tired enough. Would you like to come to bed?” Dean nodded, and followed Castiel up the stairs, Dean trailing his hand up the dark wood bannister. “You can look around up here. If you want.” He pointed down the hall. “Guest room, linen closet, bathroom I never use, and the other guest bedroom, which I mostly use for storage. The master bedroom is here.” He opened the door and stepped inside, and Dean followed him.

“I believe you, Cas. Really.” The more time he spent with the younger man, Castiel realized that it was harder to get a bead on him that he originally thought.

“Good.” Castiel took his hands and pulled him into the room, and then kissed him gently. Dean let out a quiet sound, almost a sigh, and deepened the kiss, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist. Castiel slid a hand up the back of Dean’s shirt; his skin was warm.

Castiel broke away from him, and sat on the end of the bed. “Take your clothes off,” he said.

Dean snickered. “You wanna little show?” he said, swinging his hips from side to side.

“No,” Castiel said, smiling. “I just want to see your body properly.” He hadn’t, he thought, really seen Dean yet, with their half-clothed rutting.

Dean licked his lips, and then stripped off his flannel. He reached behind him, and pulled off his black tee-shirt, and his necklace thumped against his chest. His pale skin was freckled and flushed, his nipples a dark, dusky pink. Castiel reached out and ran his hands up Dean’s stomach, his chest, running his thumbs over Dean’s nipples, making Dean’s breath catch.

“Mmh.” Dean squeezed Castiel’s hands, and then unbuckled his belt and pushed his jeans off, letting them puddle on the floor, standing in from of Castiel in his cheap, dark grey briefs. Dean was incredibly good-looking, strong and tall, broad-shouldered and long-limbed. He reached down to where his growing erection was starting to tent his underwear, blushing. “Wanna… take your shirt off,” he said, and bent down to take of Castiel’s sweater. He pushed it back over Castiel’s shoulders, and Castiel pulled his tee-shirt off. “Shit, you’re in great shape, Cas.”

Castiel’s face warmed despite himself. “Thank you.” Castiel pushed down his sweatpants, and his cock was getting red and full. He reached for Dean’s waistband, eager to get his underwear down, but Dean put his hands over Castiel’s, stopping him.

“Oh… no?” Castiel said. Dean’s face and chest were dark red, and he shrugged, avoiding Castiel’s eyes. Vaguely concerned, Castiel said, “That’s all right.” He kissed Dean’s stomach, his abdomen, nuzzling against the hair leading down to his hidden cock. Treasure trail, indeed. “I hope I didn’t rush you. We don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to.”

“I… we already…”

“So?”

“Well… you’re hard.”

Castiel huffed a laugh into Dean’s skin, and looked up at him. “You’re not obligated to do anything about it.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I know that,” he said, but Castiel wondered if he actually did. Dean ran his hands over Castiel’s shoulders and said, “Can we… lay down? Get in bed?”

Castiel stood and pulled back the blankets, hyper-aware of his own nakedness. “I can put something on…?”

“No, you don’t gotta do that.” Dean climbed into the bed and Castiel followed, leaving only the bedside lamp on. To his surprise, Dean pulled off his underwear, and tossed them over the edge of the bed to pile with the rest of his clothing, giving Castiel a view of his shapely penis, perfectly pink and half-hard, before he covered himself with the blankets. “Cold,” he mumbled.

“Mmh.” Castiel ran a hand up Dean’s arm, and Dean moved closer to him, within Castiel’s aura of warmth. “S-Sorry I got weird. It’s just… s-sometimes, some guys, ya know…” He shrugged.

“What?” Castiel said. “Tell me.”

“It’s just. Fuck. This is so dumb.” Dean shook his head. “People think ‘cuz I like sex, that it’s all I want. Ya know? That I’m just free game, I guess. I just… I’ve been thinkin’ about you for a long time. And the last week, not talkin’ to you at all, just sucked. You’re so… I just don’t wanna blow it with you. Don’t want you to think I’m just some…” He let out a wry laugh. “Hell, I dunno. Some slut, or something. I just don’t want this to only be sex. I don’t want it to be like that with you.” Dean groaned, and pulled the blanket over his face. “Fuck! That sounded straight out of a chick flick or somethin’. I’m sorry.”

Castiel felt a flurry of emotion. It was hard to focus for a moment. “Dean! I… God. I hope I didn’t make you feel like that was all I wanted?” he said. He thought back over their last encounters – indeed, each time, they had had sex of some type, with Castiel in the lead. Had he…?

“Nah, Cas,” Dean said quickly. “You didn’t. I just wanted you to know.”

“I like you a lot too, you know,” Castiel said. “I wouldn’t have you here if I didn’t.” He sighed, and wrapped an arm around Dean’s chest, kissed his shoulder. “I know you… don’t know me very well yet. I’m a fairly private person. I don’t… bring men here. I suppose I don’t bring a lot of people into my life, full stop. But I’m very happy you’re here.” Dean’s hand came up to touch his arm, and Castiel ran his thumb over Dean’s shoulder slowly, back and forth. “Let’s just sleep. We can talk more in the morning, if you’d like. I just wanted to be with you tonight.”

“Well…” Dean said, and rolled over, pressing himself flush against Castiel’s body. “I didn’t say I _didn’t_ wanna do anything tonight…”

“Oh! Can I…?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean whispered, and kissed Castiel softly. “Touch me.” His mouth was whiskey-hot on Castiel’s throat, hands callused and rough on Castiel’s hips. Castiel ran his hands up Dean’s back to grip his shoulders, pushing their hips together. Dean was hard against his thigh, and Dean sighed quietly, breath warming Castiel’s neck. “S-Sorry, if I was… weird, or-…”

“Shhh. You weren’t weird.” Castiel nuzzled Dean’s hair. “Can I touch your cock? Make you cum?”

“ _Yeah._ ” Castiel felt a drop of fluid against his hip, and he chased it with his fingers, wrapped his hand around Dean’s shaft and gave him a slow stroke. “Oh… _mmh…”_ Dean licked his lips and rocked against Castiel’s hand. “Um… can we…?”

“Anything.”

Dean shifted, nudging Castiel over on to his back, and crawled into his lap, pushing his ass against Castiel’s cock.

“Ah…” Castiel felt himself smile. “Did you come here to get fucked, Dean?”

Dean let out a hard breath. “Yeah.”

Castiel sat up, propped himself up against the pillows. He pulled the lube and a condom out of his bedside table, and thumbed open the bottle. “Turn around for me. I’m going to stretch your hole out.”

Dean’s face and chest were burning red. “Okay. Only…” He swallowed. “Don’t try to put my arms behind my back.” He looked Castiel firmly in the eye. “Hear me?”

Castiel nodded quickly, surprised at the fervor behind Dean’s gaze. “I understand. I won’t.”

Dean turned around, a little awkwardly, in Castiel’s lap. He bent forward, grinding a little against Castiel’s erection. Castiel spread his cheeks with one hand, could see his hole, furled and pink. Castiel slicked his fingers, and pressed his index finger to Dean’s hole, circling and pushing gently without penetrating him. He slid his fingers down Dean’s taint, pressing hard, making Dean jump.

“Mmh! Fuckin’ tease!” Dean grunted.

“Touch yourself,” Castiel said. “I want you to feel good.” He pressed his fingers against Dean’s hole again, and slid one finger inside slowly, but with intent. Dean grunted, and reached down to take his cock in hand. Castiel watched his arm work, slowly, pumping up and down like a steady clock. He took his time fingering Dean open, sliding in a second finger carefully. Castiel watched Dean’s toes curl, his free hand fist in the sheets. The muscles in his back flexed.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” Castiel said quietly, and slid a third finger inside him. Dean whimpered a little, tensing, then relaxing. “Not just your body. You. All of you.”

“I…” Dean started, let out a breath, and said, “I went home the other… _mmh._ The other night, the day after we met up, and… _uh…_ I fingered myself, thinking about what it’d, _ah!_ What it’d be like for you to fuck me. Couldn’t fuckin’, _uhhh,_ fuckin’ wait…”

Castiel felt lightheaded, so turned on that his cock was starting to hurt. Dean ground against him and for a moment, he was terrified that he might cum now and ruin the whole thing. He kept it together, though, and said, “Did you cum when you fingered yourself?”

“Y… _uhh…_ Yeah…” Dean sighed, rocked back against Castiel’s fingers again. “Came thuh-thinkin’ about your dick inside me.”

Castiel pulled his fingers out of Dean, taking a slow breath to steady himself. “Do you want me inside you now?”

“Yeah.”

“Like this?”

“No.” Dean shifted, and turned back around so that he was facing Castiel again. His cock was a furious red, leaking and jumping. “Like this.”

Castiel eased a condom on, thinking decidedly un-sexy thoughts (he was so close already, it was ridiculous), and slicked himself with lube. Dean took hold of Castiel’s erection and guided him to his hole, then eased himself down. The pressure was amazing, made Castiel moan quietly, his hands secure on Dean’s hips.

“Shit. _Uhhh… shit…”_ Dean hissed. He pushed up, almost off of Castiel’s cock, and then eased himself back down, slowly working until Castiel was all the way inside of him. “Fuck. _Fuck._ You got a fuckin’ big dick, Cas,” Dean said, and huffed out a laugh.

Castiel squeezed Dean’s hips, pleasure rushing through him like a warm wave. “Do you need-…?”

“Nonono, just… just gimme a minute.” He licked his lips, shifting his hips and riding Castiel’s dick shallowly, adjusting to him. “ _Mmh,_ ‘sfuckin’ good…” Dean murmured. Watching him take his pleasure aroused Castiel like nothing else. He wanted to make Dean cum, wanted it more than air. He grasped Dean’s hips, not pushing or moving him.

Dean’s erection had softened a bit, and Castiel took him in hand to bring him back to life.

“Mmh… _mmh…!_ ” Dean pulled Castiel’s hand off of his dick, and pinned it to his side. “No, just… let me ride you a little…”

“ _Yes,”_ Castiel got out. Whatever Dean wanted.

Dean moved fluidly on his cock, shifting his hips, fucking himself. His eyes were half-open, lips wet, and his erection leaked precum onto Castiel’s stomach. He looked like a wet dream personified. Castiel was so hard inside him, his body hot and tight and inviting, it took all of his will power not to thrust up into him.

“Tighter,” Dean said suddenly. “Hold me tighter.” Castiel tightened his grip on Dean’s hips, moved with him. “Fuck. _Fuck._ Oh, man, fuckin’ give it to me, Cas,” Dean said. Castiel shifted, starting to thrust up into him and Dean gasped, his body tensing.

“I want to see you cum,” Castiel breathe.

“Gonna…” Dean huffed, shifting and moving against Castiel’s thrust, meeting him. His cock was jutting out against Castiel’s stomach. “I’m gonna, oh… fuck… _fuck…”_ he whimpered, his voice going higher, his cock straining. Castiel took him in hand, and worked him quickly. A thick rope of cum shot out across Castiel’s stomach. “ _Ah! Ah! Ah! Mmh… Cas…!”_ Dean whimpered out, griding hard against Castiel’s dick, his entire body vibrating. Finally, the tension ran out of him, and he braced his hands against the headboard, gasping.

Castiel pulled him down to kiss him again.

“You close? Huh?” Dean said, low and dirty in Castiel’s ear. “Wanna cum in me?”

_More than anything,_ Castiel thought, but his muscles were protesting from their position. “I need to move,” he said, and Dean shifted, slipped Castiel’s cock out of him, and got off of his lap.

“Don’t worry,” Dean murmured, and pulled the condom off of Castiel, sloppy with lube and pre-cum. “Gonna get you off. “Dean bent down and pulled Castiel into his mouth, sucking him _hard._

“Oh, my… _God!”_ Castiel bit out, thrusting up into his mouth. He barely lasted another ten seconds before cumming into Dean’s mouth. “Dean! _Christ!”_ he got out, his body alight from his orgasm. Dean swallowed around his cock, and sat up. He grunted, and grabbed a tissue off the bedside table, and spat into it.

“Yeeaugh. Sorry,” he said. “Fuckin’ hate the taste of lube.” He balled up the tissue and the condom, wiping his hands off, and dropped them into Castiel’s small garbage can that he kept beside the bed.

Castiel hated the taste of cum, didn’t mind so much the taste of lube. Regardless, he could think of nothing other than getting his lips on Dean’s, and he grabbed him and kissed him hard.

“You’re amazing,” Castiel whispered, and kissed him again. He felt Dean smile against his lips, and Dean slid back down into the bed, held Castiel against him.

“Fuck yeah,” Dean murmured, and then laid back against the pillows, a satisfied grin on his face. Castiel laughed quietly, smiling against Dean’s skin, his penis wet and sated against his thigh. He felt high. He felt powerful. “You good?” Dean said.

“Great,” Castiel said. “I’m great.” He closed his eyes, felt Dean’s hand on his arm, rubbing gently. He listened to Dean breath in the quiet room, relaxing, almost falling asleep.

The afterglow faded slowly, and his sweat cooled. It was getting cold in the room. He needed to put something on, turn up the heat, wash his hands. Reluctantly, he climbed out bed, and put the lube back into the bedside table. He pulled out his small ashtray and a half-smoked joint. First thing’s first. “Do you mind?” he said.

“Hmm?” Dean grunted, his eyes cracking open. “Mmh. Nah. Go nuts.”

Castiel snorted, pulling out his lighter. “So, weed is okay, but cigarettes aren’t?”

Dean opened his eyes and looked at him. “Yup.” Then he shut his eyes. “Shit, Cas. I know it’s your house. I just hate the smell. Weed doesn’t bother me so much.”

Castiel frowned. He hadn’t had a cigarette in hours – was itching for one now. “Can you still smell them on me?”

Dean nodded, and put a hand behind his head. “All the time. On your clothes. In your car. On your skin, now.” He sighed. “You can have one if you want, I guess, I dunno. Just don’t like it, is all.”

Castiel lit the joint, and walked over to the window, cracking it open. He felt chastised, like a bratty toddler. “No. I don’t smoke cigarettes in the house.” And he sure as hell wouldn’t have one now.

Dean sat up and stretched his arms over his head, then slid out of bed and walked naked into the en-suite, nudging the door half-shut behind him. Castiel heard the shower start. He finished the joint, and put it out in the ashtray, then pulled his sweatpants back on and selected a clean tee-shirt from his dresser. His head was buzzing pleasantly from the weed, and he was briefly distracted by the softness of the comforter on the bed. He traced a seam, feeling the shifting goose down inside, and then slid his hand further down to the soft afghan at the foot of the bed. He shook himself, and then went back downstairs. He washed his hands in the kitchen, and gulped a glass of water, then retrieved his book and went back to bed – pausing to adjust the heat.

The shower turned off a few minutes later, and he heard Dean drying off. A moment later, Dean emerged, toweling his hair. Castiel pulled the blankets back for him to get back into bed, but instead he stooped to pick up his jeans and underwear.

“What are you doing?” Castiel said, mystified. Dean paused.

“Uh… I was gonna…” He shrugged.

Castiel frowned. “You can leave if you’d prefer. But you’re welcome to stay the night. I’d… I’d like it if you’d stay.”

“I… you…?” Dean blinked at him, his face slightly red. It was like the option hadn’t even occurred to him. “Okay.” He folded up his jeans, and dropped them on the dresser, then did the same with his discarded shirt and flannel.

“I turned the heat up,” Castiel said, feeling unsure, out of his depth. “But I have some things you can sleep in.”

Dean looked at him and nodded. “Yeah, th… uh, thanks.”

Castiel pointed to the dresser. “The bottom drawer.”

Dean crouched and pulled it open, and then withdrew an old green tee-shirt and some cotton pajama pants. The pants were a little short, and the shirt was old and loose. Castiel patted the bed beside him.

Dean climbed under the blankets, and pulled them up to his chin. “Ahhh. That’s better.” He looked up at Castiel with a shitty grin, and said, “So… where’s the TV?”

“Nowhere,” Castiel said, turning a page in his book. “No TV in the bedroom. It interferes with your REM cycle.”

Dean shook his head, burrowing deeper into the pillows. “Weirdo.”

***

Four months passed in a blink, much the same. The snow melted, giving way to spring. Dean continued to work his two jobs and take classes, Castiel continued to teach at ECC (much to his parents’ chagrin), and the continued to have little more than drive-by sessions of togetherness. These were usually late at night, Dean arriving from the bar smelling of liquor and cigarette smoke, or coming over after a shift at the autobody shop, sweaty with grease stains on his shirt. Sometimes they would eat, sometimes they would have sex, sometimes Dean would fall directly asleep on the couch while Castiel did his grading.

One Tuesday, Dean called Castiel from the car on his way to the bar.

“ _You comin’ out to see me tonight, or what?”_ he said.

“Or, _what?”_ Castiel said, almost laughing. He was laying on his bed, phone to his ear, feeling every bit like a teenaged girl. He took a puff of his joint. “What kind of invitation is this?”

Dean’s laugh was staticky in the speaker. “ _Look. I work so much. I hate that I’m half-conscious when I see you.”_

Castiel’s face warmed. He rolled on to his stomach, and tapped ash into the ceramic tray on his bedside table. “That’s more like it,” he said.

_“Come see me at the bar. It’s always slow on Tuesdays. We can play darts or somethin’. And quit getting’ stoned, or I’ll beat the pants off of ya.”_

Castiel laughed quietly. “Okay.” He stabbed the joint out, and climbed up on his knees. The room swirled around him pleasantly as the weed rushed into his head, making him feel light as a helium balloon. “When should I get there?”

“ _Come at like… seven. Dinner rush and Happy Hour will be over. Maybe 7:30.”_

“Very well.”

Castiel arrived at the bar at 7:31, sat in truck for a few minutes, and chewed a piece of nicotine gum to cardboard consistency. He was three days without a cigarette, his third attempt to quit in as many months, and he was determined to see it through this time. He was going to do it, really do it, and then he would show Dean. He chewed the gum and then stopped to push it between his teeth and his cheek, the tiny nicotine rush doing just enough to dull the cravings and keep himself from _shooting himself in the face._ Fuck, this was the worst. Why had he ever started? He shouldn’t have stopped smoking the joint, should have finished the entire thing.

Dean was right – it was dead inside the bar, just a few tables with scruffy-looking regulars, and a few stools taken up at the counter. It smelled like beer and cigarette smoke. He slid into a free barstool, and watched Dean for a moment before he noticed. Dean was stirring an old-fashioned, grinning at something customer was saying to him.

Dean finally saw him, and he smiled from ear to ear. Castiel picked up a menu, pretended to read it until Dean worked his way over to him.

“Well, he, stranger,” he said, leaning over the bar. “You drinkin’ tonight? First G and T’s on the house.”

Castiel set the menu down. “That sounds great.”

He watched Dean pour his drink, with enough Tanqueray for a triple, let alone a double. Dean wink at him as he slid it over the bar.

“Thank you,” Castiel said. “You’re going to have to roll me out of here after this.”

“Well. Maybe you can roll over to my place instead,” Dean said, quietly, his cheeks getting pink. Castiel perked up; he hadn’t been to Dean’s apartment before. Not out of any real reason – Dean said that his apartment was small, that he only had a double bed as opposed to Castiel’s roomier queen, and he preferred to spend time at Castiel’s house, where there was space to spread out.

“I’d… yes. I’d like that.” He sipped his drink, and winced. “Dean! This is toxic. Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Dean laughed. “Hell, yeah.” He looked down the bar. “Hang out for a minute, I’ll be back.”

Castiel sipped his drink slowly. He finished it off while Dean did a round with his customers, and Dean poured him a second one. He led Castiel over to the dart boards after some cajoling.

“I’m really not very good at darts,” Castiel said, holding the dark awkwardly in his hand. He was a step away from fully drunk. He threw the dart at the board, and it thunked against the frame and hit the floor. Dean burst into laughter.

“You gotta hold your arm up higher,” he said, coming up to stand behind Castiel, almost pressed against him. He touched Castiel’s arm, raised it up a little. “Like that.”

Castiel glanced back at him, giving him an _Are-You-Serious?_ look. “Like that, huh?” Dean blushed, and stepped back quickly, clearing his throat.

“Give it a try,” he said. Castiel threw the next dark, and it stuck at the very furthest edge of the board. “Progress!”

They played a few rounds, Dean absolutely trouncing Castiel each time without even trying, before Castiel said, “I surrender. I don’t have a chance, and you’re making me look terrible.”

“Ah, come on!” Dean said, and threw one more dart – a perfect bullseye. “I’m just having a lucky streak.”

“Bullshit. You hustler.”

Dean laughed quietly, shaking his head, and he followed Castiel back to the bar. He did another round with his customers, and came back to Castiel again, actually walked around the bar and sat on the stool beside him.

“How’s that drink comin’?”

“Strong,” Castiel said. “You might have to help me finish it when your shift ends. Or maybe I could buy you some shots.” Castiel leaned over and kissed him, just a soft peck on the lips. Their lips barely touched before Dean jerked back like he’d been stung.

“Don’t.” Dean turned his face away.

Castiel stared at him, bewildered. “Don’t what?” he said quietly. “Don’t-…?”

“Don’t fuckin’ do that shit here,” Dean snapped, looking furious. “Fuck, Cas.”

Castiel stared at him for a moment, but Dean wouldn’t look back at him. Castiel leaned away from Dean, resting his arms on the bar. “I see.”

The air between them rapidly congealed. Dean was tense as a trip wire. “I gotta… um. I should check and see if they need help in the kitchen.”

Castiel picked up his glasses and slammed the rest of his drink, immediately regretted it, and said, “That’s fine. I’d better go.”

“No, you don’t have to-…”

“No, no,” Castiel said, sliding off of the stool. He clumsily jammed his arms into his coat. “I wouldn’t want people to think you were here with me.”

“Cas!”

Castiel ignored him, and left the bar, his face burning. He wanted a cigarette more than anything, so much that it made his head pound, almost made him panic. He stood in the blue cloud of cigarette smoke outside the bar with the other smokers, breathing deep, but decided this was making it worse, so he climbed in his truck and shoved a piece of nicotine gum in his mouth instead.

***

Castiel had a missed call from Dean the next morning. He waited until his lunch to call him back, tucked away in the safety of his office.

Dean’s voice was quiet and low on the phone. “ _Hey.”_

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel took a slow breath and balked. He’d been so angry the night before, but his anger had simmered and he wasn’t sure what to say next.

_“Look,”_ Dean said, then went quiet. _“Look,”_ he said again. “ _I don’t understand why you freaked out.”_

“Why _I_ freaked out?” Castiel said, hearing his voice raising. He squeezed his hand into a fist. “I gave you something that barely even counted as a kiss, and you acted like I tried to stick my tongue down your throat.”

“ _Jesus Christ,”_ Dean said.

“What?” Castiel demanded.

“ _You are really acting like a spoiled fuckin’ brat right now,”_ Dean said, and Castiel’s body went hot and cold at once.

“I… excuse me?” he said, so furious that for a moment he couldn’t see.

“ _I don’t like sh… stuff like that in public. And you stormed out like… like, I dunno! Like I took your favorite toy away! I don’t understand what the big deal is.”_

“You are unbelievable. I don’t have any interest in dating a coward.”

Dean went dead quiet on the other end. “ _You…”_ he started. “ _You got no right talkin’ about me like that.”_

Castiel could feel it in the air, that he’d crossed some line, but he was passed the point of no return. “I don’t have time for this,” he said. “I have no interest in dating an insecure child.” And then he hung up on Dean, feeling every bit like a mature adult. He sat stewing in his office, staring at his messy desk, fuming, until he was late for his next class.

***

Castiel turned his phone off, ignored it all the next day. When he last class finally ended, he turned it on. Six missed calls, four voicemails.

One missed call: _“Hey! What the hell is going on with you? You’re acting like you’re fuckin’ PMSing or something! Will you call me back when you fuckin’ grow up?”_

One missed call – no message.

One missed call: _“Hey, it’s me. Look, I’m… I shouldn’t have… fuck.”_ The voicemail cut off.

One missed call – no message.

One missed call: _“Cas, it’s Dean. I don’t feel good about… I shouldn’t…”_ The voicemail cut off again.

One missed call: _“It’s me. Dean. I’m sorry. Okay? I shouldn’t have… I… just shouldn’t have. Done that. I overreacted and I was, I was shitty. You’re right. I’m a coward and I’m sorry. Will you just call me back? Also, sorry for blowing your phone up. I just feel like an asshole.”_

Castiel deleted the messages. He felt like an asshole himself. He knew he’d gotten too dramatic about everything the day before, knew he was going too far. This wasn’t going to work. None of it.

He called Dean when he got home, and it went straight to voicemail. Dean must be working – he was always working, and that was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

“Dean,” Castiel said, feeling foolish talking to the machine. “I… I’m sorry. I know I was harsh with you.” He swallowed. “I… care about you. A lot. But I… I feel like we’re… We don’t have our priorities in the same place. _We’re_ not in the same place. Maybe we should…” Break up? God, he didn’t want that. “Maybe we should cool things off for a while.” He swallowed again, wishing belatedly that he wasn’t leaving this stupid message, that he’d waited to talk to Dean directly. “Well… okay. Bye.” Fuck. He ended the call, furious with himself.

Cool things off? Did he want that? Maybe. He didn’t want any of this. He missed Dean, missed talking to him, missed seeing him. Even after just a few days, the absence gnawed at him like a missing limb.

Castiel sat on the couch, chin in his hand. _I was harsh with you,_ he’d said. That was putting it lightly. _Maybe I’m the one who is overreacting._

The thought arrested him. Was Castiel the one in the wrong? He considered it. To be fair, Castiel hadn’t ever asked Dean how he felt about PDA. And Castiel had told him specifically to be discreet when they were at school. Kissing Dean at the bar wasn’t exactly discreet. And, really, who was Castiel to tell Dean he was a coward? He still didn’t have the balls to tell his family about his life, not really. What right did he have to demand Dean be open about their relationship at work?

Shit. _And_ Dean had been at work. What would Castiel have done if Dean had tried to kiss him on campus? In the halls? Turn away from him, probably. But he wouldn’t have said, _Don’t fucking do that shit here._ He would have been smarter about it, he thought. Kinder. _Let’s wait until later._ That might have been easier to swallow.

But was that Dean’s way? Dean was rough, a little uncouth. But he was also sweet. Kind. Never did a cruel thing maliciously, but would occasionally have a blunder. Castiel was the one who was cruel. Who calculated, got in digs that hurt, really hurt. Who called a strong man a coward.

Castiel grabbed his phone, suddenly overcome with the urge to talk to Dean, to set things right. He called him – voicemail again. He certainly wasn’t going to leave another.

***

Castiel awoke at 2:15 in the morning to his doorbell going off. He scrubbed his hands over his face and laid there for a moment. If he ignored it, if he didn’t go down, then this was definitely over. He could finish it off now, put it out of its misery, wouldn’t have to obsess over it for another moment.

Castiel pushed the blankets off and stumbled down the stairs to the front door. He didn’t bother checking the peephole; he already knew who it was.

“Hey.” Dean was on the porch, haloed in porchlight, looking hangdog. His face was lined and there were dark circles under his eyes; he looked ready to drop.

Castiel sighed, and leaned his head against the doorjamb. “Dean… what are you doing here?”

“Can’t sleep,” Dean said, mirroring Castiel and leaning his head against the doorway. “Bed’s too cold.”

Castiel laughed quietly. “Come in, then,” he said, and stepped back from the door. Dean paused, and then reached out and pulled Castiel back toward him. He kissed him in the open doorway.

The gesture wasn’t lost on him.

“Come in. Come to bed,” Castiel said, and drew Dean into the house. Dean followed him blearily up into the bedroom, and Castiel pushed the coat off of his shoulders. Dean shed his clothes down to his boxer briefs, and climbed under the blankets.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole,” Dean said, as Castiel got into bed beside him.

Castiel shook his head. “It’s all right. I certainly said some things I shouldn’t have as well.” Castiel formed the blankets around him, but Dean pushed against his body, wrapping an arm around his chest. “I’m sorry, Dean. I think I might have been the one who was really an asshole.” He sighed, and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m not an idiot. I know sometimes we have to be discreet to… survive. Function. In the real world. God knows I’ve had my share of discretion, especially with my family.” His fingers traced the shell of Dean’s ear. “You don’t have to touch me in public if you aren’t comfortable with it. I can make my peace with that.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t have to be such a dick about it. You didn’t deserve that from me.”

“I should have asked you about it before. It’s just hard, sometimes, to have the hard conversations like that with you. We’re asleep half the time we’re together.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Castiel ran a hand through Dean’s hair. “Also, I…” Castiel bit his lip for a moment. “I haven’t had a cigarette in five days.”

Dean shifted so that his chin was resting on Castiel’s chest. “Really?”

“Yes. And the first three days were…” He groaned. “Surreal. I wanted to rip my skin off. I’ve been sleeping like shit, I’ve been on edge all the time. I made two of my students cry.”

“Shit, Cas!”

“I know. It’s easier today.” Today, at almost 2:30, he was technically into day six. Whoopee. “That hasn’t helped with my temperament.”

“I can tell,” Dean said. He moved up Castiel’s body, nosing against his throat. “You smell better.” Castiel gave him a weak smile. “You usin’ the patch? Cold turkey?”

“Gum.”

“Good.” Dean took his hand and kissed his palm. “You still like me?” Dean said, with a tired smile.

Castiel bit back a laugh. “I suppose.” He traced his free hand down Dean’s nape, the back of his neck. “You’re lucky you’re so handsome.”

“Cas,” Dean said, low and quiet. “I don’t wanna cool things off with you.”

Castiel closed his eyes. “Neither do I. And I.” He frowned. “I think I was trying to find a reason to.”

“What? Why?”

Castiel opened his eyes, watched him for a moment. “Because I like you too much. I went so long without liking anyone, without wanting anyone. And I want you every day.” He ran ah and down Dean’s cheek, his palm scraping on his stubble. “Maybe I was just trying to distance myself. I wasn’t just being dramatic on the phone. We’re… different. You’re younger. Maybe I’m worried you’ll get bored.”

“Cas!” Dean said, sitting up. “I won’t… I… shit. I like you a lot too, you know? I…” He scratched his stubble for a moment. “I think I love you.” Castiel felt his entire body prickle, his mouth opened in surprise. He sat up, his eyes on Dean’s. “I know it’s probably too soon to say anything like that. I’ve never… been in love before. Never known what that feels like. And I never really used to think about my future, you know? Never really needed to. But now, I think about it. And whenever I think about it, you’re there with me.”

“Dean,” Castiel whispered, overwhelmed, and pulled Dean against him, held him tight. He could count on one hand the number of people who had told him they loved him, and he was utterly unprepared. “I’m sorry, I… what I… I was angry. I called you a coward. You’re no coward.”

“Fuckin’ right,” Dean said, and then Dean kissed him, deep and sweet, and pulled them back down to the bed. Castiel slung his arms around Dean’s neck to hold on to him, and Dean slid a hand into Castiel’s shorts.

“Wait…” Castiel said, bracing a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“I…” Dean blinked at him, withdrew his hand, rested it on Castiel’s side. “I was gonna…”

“I’m exhausted. You can barely keep your eyes open. Do you really want to?”

“Well, yeah! Err… uh… maybe not.” Dean frowned deeply, his fingers flexing against Castiel’s side. “I don’t… I just want…” He paused. “I want things to be all right with us.”

Castiel felt a tug of something – concern, alarm, maybe. “They are. Okay? They already are. Let’s just get some sleep.”

“Oh… okay.”

“Dean. We’re all right. You and I.” Castiel kissed him gently, and then held him tight, running his fingers through Dean’s bristle-short hair. Dean let out a quiet sigh, one arm going around Castiel’s side, and then he went still.

Dean’s next night off, they went to a different bar, a touristy spot in the Power and Light district with rainbow stickers in the window. Dean kissed him when they walked in, quickly, barely a touch of his lips, before turning away, red-faced, his hand clenched around Castiel’s, a clammy, sweaty, nervous grip. It was certainly a start.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Smoking, quitting smoking, alcohol and substance abuse, fighting, some issues with boundaries and consent during sex and intimacy


	4. looking back.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family, exes, and other problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is this chapter 28,000 words, you ask? Here's what it is. This fic is mostly written. Before I post a chapter, I go through and fully rewrite the draft. This chapter started as one chapter, but it got so long that I split it in two, but as far as the story goes, I prefer it as one. So, please enjoy. 
> 
> XOXO, Rosemary
> 
> NOTE POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNINGS AT THE END.

_I don’t mind the sun sometimes  
_ _The images it shows  
_ _I can taste you on my lips and smell you in my clothes  
_ _Cinnamon and sugary, and softly spoken lies_  
_You never know just how you look  
_ _Through other people’s eyes_

**16 years ago.**

Sam, eleven years old, almost twelve, made his announcement over dinner.

“I’m a vegetarian,” he said, and pushed the plate of lasagna away from him. Then he crossed his arms, and literally turned his nose up in the air.

Dean looked at Bobby, back at Sam. “You’re a _what?”_

“A _vegetarian,”_ Sam repeated slowly. “It means I’m not gonna eat meat anymore.”

“Are you kiddin’?” Dean said plainly, dropping his fork onto his plate. “You couldn’t’a told me that before I slaved all day on lasagna?”

“All day?” Sam gave Dean a contemptuous stare. “It came out of a box, and you and I both know it.”

“Not gonna eat meat?” Bobby cut in, unable to even fathom the idea. “What are ya gonna eat for protein?”

“Tofu,” Sam said. “Dairy, eggs and stuff. Beans.”

Dean groaned. “Great,” he said, and picked up his fork. “I’m sure they got plenty of friggin’ _tofu_ at Supermart.”

Bobby grunted. “I s’pose that means you won’t be joinin’ us on the huntin’ trip this weekend.”

“Hunting is _barbaric_ ,” Sam pronounced, with all of the pre-teenaged arrogance in the world. Dean snorted out a wry laugh, and ate another bite of lasagna.

Bobby looked at Dean. “Looks like it’s just gonna be you ‘n me.”

Dean looked up from his food. “Guess so.”

“Well…” Sam frowned. “We’re gonna do something for your birthday too, right?”

“’Course,” Dean said, and smiled.

Bobby heard him make the call the next day. Of course, Dean would have to be the one to call – John would never think to call his sons, let alone on their birthdays. How long had they been with Bobby, now? A year and a half? And it was like this every time.

Bobby sat at his desk in a cloud of frustration as he listened to the one-sided conversation. Dean dialed from the cordless phone, sat at the kitchen table.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me,” Dean said, and Bobby breathed a sigh of relief that the man had picked up. “It’s _Dean,_ Dad,” Dean said. “No. No, we’re… yeah. We’re fine. Bobby’s good. I… no. It’s my sixteenth. My… my sixteenth _birthday,_ Dad. I just wanted to say… I…” Dean was quiet, rolling a pen back and forth on the table. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine. I changed out the… yeah. Listen, Dad, I just wanted to… um. Yessir. He’s here. Hang on.” Dean scraped the chair back on the linoleum, and Bobby heard him walk around to the living room where Sam was reading on the sofa – Bobby could see them from his desk. “Dad’s on the phone.”

“What?” Sam said, frowning. He let his book fall open on his chest. “He lookin’ for money or somethin’?”

“No!” Dean said. “Jeezus. No, I… I called him.” Dean held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

Sam sorted, and looked back at his book. “Nope.”

“ _Sammy._ Talk to Dad,” Dean said, and shoved the phone into his hand. Sam hit the Off button, and dropped the phone onto the couch. “Sam!” Dean snarled, and then stopped himself. Quieter, he said, “He’s still our dad.”

Sam abandoned his book and stood up, taking a step closer to Dean, staring up to look him in the eye. “I don’t give a shit,” he whispered, low and venomous, and then he walked away, his footsteps pounding up the stairs. Dean stared after him, his face flushing. Then he picked up the phone and stared at it a moment, like he was willing it to ring, before going back to place it in the cradle.

***

The hunting trip had been Bobby’s idea. Bobby’s own father, may he rot in Hell, had taken him hunting often as well; although, they didn’t have much of a choice back in his day. He’d grown up poor, piss-poor. You either shot your meat or it was stale bread for dinner.

And Dean seemed to enjoy hunting, being outdoors, Bobby thought. He hoped. Bobby wished he could do something nicer for him, something better. He wished he knew more about what Dean liked, what he enjoyed, what he did for fun. Dean did so much around the house, handled the shopping, the cooking, helped out at the salvage, and kept Sam in line. Sometimes Bobby felt almost superfluous beside him, and Dean didn’t seem to do much in his down time (other than watch TV). He liked reading okay, but not as much as Sam. He’d wrestled for the high school team for a little while, until the twin F’s he’d gotten in algebra and Language Arts had forced him to stop. Sam had been able to help drag him up to a C- in English, but Bobby had been completely useless, especially with the algebra; that new math was way over his head. Dean liked helping out in the salvage yard, liked cars, liked the Impala. But what else? When it came to the subject of himself, Dean was shockingly tight-lipped. Didn’t talk about friends, girls (or, if not girls… well… the other possibility. Bobby didn’t even want to think about that), clubs, hobbies, nothing.

At odds with it all, Bobby could only lean on what he knew. Ah, well. Fuck it. Bobby was determined to have a good time today. They were just a few hours out from where he’d parked the truck at the tree line. Just a day-hunt, boots and jeans and orange vests, nothing especially rough. Emergency supplies in a pack, of course, but really just some time away.

It had been unseasonably warm that week, and the snow was mostly melted, leaving the ground a little soggy, a little muddy. Dean would ask an occasional question about a plant or a birdsong, but they were quiet otherwise, alert and looking for movement, rifles on their arms. 

“Nice out here,” Dean remarked, after a few minutes of quiet.

“Yup.” That was a good sign. Right? “Good weather.”

“Mmh.”

They stopped for a bit in a copse of oaks for lunch. Dean produced ham sandwiches from his bag, only slightly mushy from being bounced around, and Bobby poured coffee from his thermos.

After lunch, they hiked down a hill, through thick pines to a half-frozen stream that was babbling cheerfully. They followed it down for maybe another mile before Bobby saw the doe. It was off downhill, through the bushes, munching on leaves with its back to them. Bobby held up a hand, and Dean stopped.

“See her?” he whispered.

Dean gave him a short nod. “Yessir.”

Bobby’s hand went to his rifle, but then he stopped, and turned back to Dean. “You ready?”

Dean looked at him, his eyes widening. “Me?”

Bobby grinned. “Sure. You’re gonna shoot it.” Dean was hesitant, slow with the rifle, looking at the doe, then back to Bobby. “Go on, now.” Dean dropped to one knee as he clicked the safety off, and held the butt up to his shoulder. He swallowed, and then aimed. “Got your shot lined up?” Bobby said, crouching next to him.

Dean’s voice was quiet. “Yessir.”

“Take it,” Bobby said. “Take her. Quick.” The wind changed, and the doe froze, then perked its head up in the air. “What are you waitin’ for?” Bobby said. To his horror, Dean’s face was screwed up, and he looked like he might start crying. “Dean!” Bobby said. “What’s the matter, boy?”

Dean shook his head. “Nothin’. _Nothin’._ I can do it.” He let out a hard breath and aimed again, but didn’t pull the trigger. Bobby looked at the doe.

“Dean-…”

“ _Fuck_.” Dean jerked the rifle off of his shoulder. “I… I’m done.” He got to his feet, one knee black from the wet ground, and stalked away back upstream. Bobby’s rifle was limp in his hands, and the deer bounded away through the trees.

Dean didn’t speak the entire way back to the road, not while they were putting their gear away, not while they were climbing into the truck to drive back home. He sat in a hunched ball, every muscle tense, like a wire about to snap.

Bobby drove in silence, hesitant – maybe afraid – to even turn on the radio.

Dean spoke suddenly, so much so that it almost made Bobby jump. “I see fawns around, sometimes,” he said. “And that doe, you know, she might have… she might have babies somewhere. I was just thinkin’ that… if I shot her, her kids would never know what happened. They’d be all alone, they’d prob’bly get snatched up pretty quick. Like, eaten, or something. I dunno.” And then, a minute later, he mumbled. “Sorry. I blew it.”

Bobby reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, boy,” he said. “Huntin’ ain’t for everyone.” Dean looked so miserable that Bobby added, “Maybe we can just go campin’ next time, once it dries up. Whaddaya think?”

“Really?” Dean said, perking up.

“Well, sure! We can pitch a tent, make s’mores, or whatever. Hell, I bet even our resident vegetarian won’t argue with that.”

Dean let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. All right,” he said, and Bobby saw him relax. Relieved, Bobby turned on the radio.

***

Bobby was passing Sam’s bedroom on his way to bed that night. It wasn’t late, but he was tired from waking up early for the hunt. The light was on under the door, and Dean and Sam were talking, Sam’s voice slightly raised. Bobby paused, frowning.

“…-don’t understand why you would even want to.”

“It’s not that. I just wanna make sure you ain’t gonna pitch a fit when he tells you we’re goin’.”

“But Dean,” Sam said, exasperated. “You _hate_ camping.”

Bobby’s heart sputtered in his chest, and he felt his face warm. 

“That ain’t the damn point,” Dean said. “When he asks, you’re gonna say, _Well, sure, Bobby. That sounds swell._ Hear?”

“Aright, aright! Shit. I actually _like_ camping, ya know?”

“Bullshit.”

Bobby scuttled off to his bedroom, feeling useless as an eleventh toe.

***

**Four years ago.**

Spring – sticky, humid, shirtsleeve weather. Dean was about to earn an Associates degree in Business Management. It was a little surreal; it wasn’t something he ever thought he’d have. Higher Education. After he dropped out of high school, he’d been certain that he was done, doomed to nothing more than his Good-Enough Degree.

Dean was walking out to his car after class when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

The screen read: _1 Missed Call – Bobby Singer_

He dialed Bobby back as he slid into his car, shutting the door behind him. The warm air pressed in around him, and he started the engine and turned on the A/C.

“ _Yello?”_

“Bobby, hey. It’s Dean.”

“ _Where you been, boy?”_

“Sorry, I was in, uh. Class.”

“ _Ah, sorry. Hope I didn’t interrupt. How’s everything goin’?”_

Dean told him about his classes, about the Impala, the leak in the roof of his apartment. Bobby told him about the salvage, about Rufus’ broken foot.

“ _Well, what else is goin’ on? How are you?”_ Bobby said, and Dean felt a sudden, scary rush as he realized what he was about to say.

“I. Uh.” Dean cleared his throat. “I actually wa-wanted to tell you. There’s this… um.”

“ _Spit it out, then,”_ Bobby said.

“I m-met someone.” Dean swallowed hard, felt adrenaline rush from his head to his toes.

Bobby was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “ _Oh?”_

“Someone… nice. Someone you’d, uhm, approve of, I think.” Dean ran his hand along the edge of the steering wheel, gripped it tight, tired to take his mind to the open road. “I think he’s someone you’d like.”

The _he_ hung in the air like a wisp of smoke, and Dean waited, bracing himself, not knowing what to expect. He’d never told Bobby about this, never directly. Bobby had known, of course, had figured it out, had half-yelled, half-lectured him occasionally. But Dean had never, ever mentioned any of the various _He’s_ in the past.

“ _Okay.”_ Bobby cleared his throat. “ _All right. You gonna tell me about this boy, or ya gonna keep me in suspense?”_

Dean felt heat flood his face, almost like a surge of tears. He couldn’t speak for a moment, and then he leaned his head back against the seat and blew out a quiet breath. “He’s, uh… He’s a teacher, err, a professor, at the… at the college. Eisenhower Community College. Where I’m takin’ classes, you know.”

“ _What? You workin’ him over for an A?”_

“No! Nah, he’s in the English department. Outside my area.”

“ _Hmph. He talk with his fists, too?”_

Dean blushed. “No, he… Jesus, Bobby. C’mon. I ain’t nineteen anymore, okay?” His grip went to the steering wheel again. “I wouldn’t. Ever again. With someone like that.”

“ _Goddamn right you won’t.”_ He heard Bobby sip something out of a rocks glass. “ _And this gentleman’s name?”_

“Castiel.”

“ _What? Cah-what?”_

“Cas-ti-el. I, uh, call him ‘Cas.’”

“ _Cas. Professor Cas. Hmm.”_ He was quiet a moment. _“How long y’all been, uh… seein’ each other?”_

Dean frowned, considering the question. “Um… shit… two years? Two years this last winter?” Holy shit. That broke Dean’s track record by about a mile.

“ _Oh… wow. Well.”_ Dean heard papers shuffling, and he imagined Bobby sat at his desk, going over purchases and inventory.

“I was… thinkin’ about. Uh. Askin’ him if he, if he wanted to come out to Palo Alto with me,” Dean mumbled. 

Bobby gave a non-committal, “ _Hunh,”_ and Dean could tell that he was done with this conversation, could tell he wanted to change the subject.

“You know, they got someone puttin’ in his two weeks at the garage,” Dean said, taking the lead.

_“They still jerkin’ you around on hours?”_

“Yeah. I’m part-time still, so I’m bartending a lot.”

“ _Goddamn bullshit.”_

“It’s aright. Sometimes I make better money on tips than I do goin’ part time at the shop.”

“ _You work too damn much. Maybe it’s time to tell that garage to take a hike.”_

“Maybe.” Dean didn’t want to do that. The whole damn reason he got the stupid-ass degree in the first place was because he wanted to own his own garage, and thought it might help. He was sick of bartending. “I dunno. I’ll have more free time after June, when I’m done with school. I’ll think about it then.”

“ _Shit,”_ Bobby said. “ _Done as in done?”_

“Yeah.”

“ _Oh, well… are you gonna miss your own graduation to be at Sam’s?”_

Dean snorted. What a joke. “It ain’t the same, Bobby, not by a long shot. And I probably wouldn’t have gone anyhow – I’m not some kid.”

_“Hmm.”_ Bobby clearly wasn’t happy about that.

“It’s all fine. I really don’t care. I’ll get my little certificate and move on.” Dean tried to picture it, tried to see himself standing on a podium, cap and gown. Bobby and Sam in the audience, Cas down with the other teachers. He shook his head. Stupid.

“ _You should go. Celebrate proper.”_

“I’ll party it up in California. Will that satisfy you?”

“ _I s’pose. Speakin’ of which…”_

“Yeah. You’re comin’ out, right?” Sam’s graduation, or _commencement_ as it was called on the fancy invitation Sam sent him, was in a month. Dean was still working up the courage to buy the plane ticket.

“ _Of course.”_

“Are you flying?”

“ _I reckon so. It’s probably a two-, three-day drive.”_

Dean caught sight of his watch, and swore. “Sorry, Bobby, I gotta jet. I’m gonna be late for work.”

“ _All right.”_

“I’ll call again soon.”

“ _I’ll talk to you soon, then.”_

Dean hung up the phone, and started to put his car in gear when he saw movement in the parking lot behind him.

Cas was walking out of the building, past the horrible bronze sculpture near the entrance, in pace with another teacher or maybe an older student. They were talking, Cas gesturing as he spoke. _What did Shakespeare mean when he put that comma there? Was he referencing the collapse of the Roman Empire?_ Or something like that, probably. 

They reached Cas’ truck (Old Faithful, still chugging along) and stopped to finish their conversation. Dean waited, hoping Cas would see his car, but he was in the student lot and Cas didn’t look in his direction.

Dean sent him a text instead.

_To Cas: working tonight til 8. You free?_

Cas waved to the other teacher as they walked off toward a Prius, and then he turned to unlock his truck. Dean saw him pause, then reach into his pocket and pull out his phone. Dean could see the smile cross his face, and it made his heart squeeze with affection. Cas typed out a reply, and then climbed into his truck. Dean heard the horrible squealing of the belts as the monster started up, and then took off out of the parking lot, down the street, heavy with late-lunch traffic.

His phone buzzed. _From Cas: Yes. Please come to mine after._

Dean felt an incredible pull and pounding in his chest, a _holy shit I am in love with this man_ feeling. It carried him all the way through his shift.

***

Dean keyed in to Cas’ place around 8:30, tired and sore, thinking about using Cas’ shower and passing out on the couch while Cas worked. Coming up on finals, and he was busy. Fuck, maybe Bobby was right about the garage. Maybe it was time to tell this place to kick rocks.

“Hey,” he announced, shutting the door behind him. 

Cas was on the couch, sat in front of a pile of papers on the coffee table. The speakers were playing Cas’ favorite – whiney, grungy rock from the nineties. The ceiling fan was on, giving the room a swirling breeze. “Hello, Dean.” He looked up, and scrunched up his face. “Would you like to use the shower?”

Dean grinned. “Yeah. Guess I’d better.” He dropped his keys and wallet on the table inside the door. They’d exchanged keys on their first anniversary – it had been Dean’s idea, and he’d been nervous as hell about it at the time. Now it felt like nothing at all, easy as pie. He was spending most of his free time at Cas’ anyway these days.

At the time, though, he’d been at a loss. First of all, anniversaries were fucking stupid. Second of all… what the hell do you buy someone who has everything they need?

Dean was a lover of practical gifts, but Cas wasn’t really a practical kind of guy. He couldn’t fix shit himself – the sink drips, call a plumber. Window breaks, call a contractor. Car breaks down, take it to a mechanic.

Dean had hemmed and hawed over it, incredibly nervous, not only about giving someone access to his home, his most private, protected place, but maybe also what it meant. _I trust you implicitly._

Cas had presented him with a new leather jacket, smooth and creamy brown. Heavy, Dean thought. Expensive, he thought.

Dean had mumbled something about not knowing what to get Cas before shoving the small box into Cas’ hands. Cas opened the box and took out the key, frowning.

“I… what’s…?”

“It’s a key to my apartment,” Dean said quickly. “S-So you, ya know. Can.” He shrugged.

Cas smiled, and then his face twisting up like he might cry or something. “Oh, Dean. That’s…” He shook his head, and then grabbed Dean’s face and kissed him. “Perfect. _Perfect._ I feel like my gift is paltry in comparison.”

“Yeah, I bet it sure wasn’t.” Dean’s face was hot as he threaded his arms through the new jacket. It fit great.

“Here. You should have mine, too.” Cas unhooked his house key from his own keychain.

“Um…” Dean frowned. “Don’t you have a spare?”

“Somewhere,” Cas said, waving a hand.

They concluded their anniversary with a stop at the hardware store to get two spares made.

Dean smiled at the memory. He showered off quickly, and pulled on sweatpants and a sweatshirt. In addition to exchanging keys, Cas had hollowed out his bottom dresser drawer for Dean to keep some clothes in.

It made Dean feel strange – keeping his clothes in Cas’ house. It wasn’t something he’d ever done before, with anyone. Clothes, keys, spending most of the week here… Sometimes it activated something in him, some kind of panic, an urge to make a run for it.

He wasn’t going to do that, though. Not on your life.

Dean went back downstairs and flopped on to the couch, sighing. Cas’ stupid, gigantic couch, took up half of the living room. Dean could lie on one end, fully stretched out, and his feet still didn’t reach Cas where he was sat on the other end. It was something called a Chesterfield, or something – Dean didn’t know. His furniture was all Goodwill and side-of-the-road gems, brandless, mismatched and frayed and water-stained.

“What’s goin’ on?” Dean said, putting his arms behind his head.

Cas shook his head, not looking up from his papers. “Nothing new to report,” he said. Then he glanced over to Dean. “Are you hungry?”

Dean patted his woefully empty stomach. “Sure am. You got any food?”

Cas laughed quietly, and set his paperwork down. “Yes, I have some food.” He stood, and Dean sat up.

“I can get it-…”

Cas pressed his shoulder, and Dean laid back down. “You’re tired. Let me get you something.”

Dean watched him for a moment, and then laid back down. “Well… okay.” Cas disappeared into the kitchen, and Dean relaxed, listening to Kurt Cobain moan about his heroin addiction, feeling the ceiling fan ruffling his hair. “Don’t make anything too complicated, now…!” Dean called, slightly apprehensive. Cas’ cooking was on par with a college student – able to warm things in the microwave and heat soup on the stove, and that was about it. His oven was almost untouched before Dean started hanging out there.

“I won’t,” Cas called back. A few minutes later, he returned with a beer, and a sandwich piled high with cold cuts.

Dean sat up, grinning. “You’re an angel,” he said, taking the bottle and the plate and setting them on the coffee table.

“Yes…” Cas returned to his place on the sofa, picked the papers back up. Dean devoured the sandwich, and chugged the beer.

“I, uh…” Dean fiddled with the bottle, picked at the label. “I… did somethin’ today.”

“What did you do?” Cas said, flipping a paper into his _Done_ pile.

“I… Bobby called me. Ya know, just to talk, check in and shit. Um…” Cas looked at him questioningly. “I… told him about us.”

“Bobby…” Cas frowned. “He’s the man who you lived with for a while. Right? When you were a teenager?”

Dean had always been vague with Cas on the situation surrounding his and Sam’s dump-off at Bobby’s, about pretty much everything involving his life before. Told him even less about his father; only that they weren’t close.

“Yeah. We lived with him since I was fourteen and Sam was ten, and a little before that too, ya know, Dad would drop us off with him for a few weeks at a time sometimes. He’s kinda like an uncle.” Dean cleared his throat. “S-So. I mean. I didn’t know when I talked to him that I was gonna tell him, it just kinda… happened.”

Cas set his pen down. “How did he take it?”

“Uhm…” Dean shrugged one shoulder. “I dunno. He ain’t exactly… pleased. With a lot of my choices. A lot of the shit I did when I was younger. Was a little… self-destructive, I guess. Didn’t pick the best guys to mess around with. And… well… he ain’t real comfortable with the whole gay thing in the first place. So he’s kinda…” Dean shook his head.

“Ambivalent?” Cas offered.

“Uh… yeah.” Dean got to his feet, face warming. “I’m gonna grab another beer.”

“Okay,” Cas said, quietly. “Will you open one for me as well?”

“Sure thing.” Dean hustled into the kitchen, tail between his legs. Fuck. _Didn’t pick the best guys to mess around with._ That was putting it lightly. Dean wrapped his fingers around his right wrist for a moment, feeling a brief, phantom pain. He took a deep breath, and opened the refrigerator to grab two beers.

He went back to the couch and sat down, a little closer to Cas, and passed him the open bottle.

“Thank you.” Cas took it, but didn’t take a drink. “You know, Dean, I… I think you’re very brave. For telling your family about us.” His mouth twisted. “You know I still haven’t told mine a word.” He sighed quietly, and sipped the beer. “I don’t even think my brothers would care. Not really. But I truly don’t know what to expect from my parents.”

“You think they’d be pissed?”

Cas let out a derisive laugh. “Uh… yes. My mother would probably vomit on the spot, and maybe lay down and have a seizure. I really don’t know how my father would feel about it, but I’m sure that he would back my mother.” He took another long drink.

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean said. “You know I don’t… I mean…”

“I know.” Cas looked over at him, looking almost sad. “Sometimes I wish I had your courage.”

Dean blushed white-hot. “Shut up,” he grumbled, and then scooted the rest of the way across the couch to sit directly against Cas. Cas wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer. “Listen. Uh. I’ve… told you about Sam, right?”

Cas grinned. “Yes. You’ve told me about Sam.”

“I told you he’s graduating from law school in June?”

“Oh. No. Good for him, that’s quite an accomplishment.”

“It’s… on the twelfth. I’m gonna, um. I’m gonna go out to California to see him.”

“That’s good.” Cas paused. “Is… are…?”

Dean pushed himself up so he could look Cas in the face. “I was wonderin’… I mean, I gotta… I wanna check with Sam first, but… would you wanna come with me?” Quickly, he added, “If you can, I mean, I dunno if you can miss the grad ceremony for ECC.”

“The college’s commencement is on the sixteenth. I think we can be back in time.” Cas squeezed his shoulder. “It’s your commencement, too. You should be there.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s dumb. I’m not-…”

“It’s _not. Dumb,”_ Cas said firmly. Dean felt his mouth close. “I saw four students today who won’t be receiving their degrees on schedule. They’ll be lucky if they complete their programs at all. And you’ve done it, by yourself, in two years.” Dean wanted to look at the carpet, but Cas held his gaze. “You should be proud. And you _should_ commemorate properly. You deserve it.”

Dean felt something in his chest, like Cas had put a hand around his heart and squeezed as tight as he could. Dean looked away finally, and took a long glug of his beer. “Aright, aright. Jeezus. I’ll think about it, okay?”

“I’ll convince you.” Cas sipped his beer, and grabbed another paper to grade. “Anyway. To answer your question, yes. I would be happy to accompany you. Will I get to meet everyone?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, sitting up straighter. “Sam, of course, and his girlfriend, Jess. Bobby. It’ll be great.”

“And…” Cas paused. “Your father?”

Dean pressed his lips together. “I dunno. Dunno if he’d show.” He blinked at the carpet. “I… don’t think that Sam would have invited him. But.” He shrugged. “You never know.”

“I see.” Cas patted his arm, and started marking up the paper. “That will be a nice trip. I’m looking forward to it. Now leave me in peace, I absolutely have to get this done.”

Dean leaned heavily against Cas’ body, and dropped his chin onto Cas’ shoulder.

***

A week before the flight out to California, Dean got to Cas’ place around seven. Cas wasn’t in his usual spot on the couch, so Dean kicked off his boots and hung up his coat.

“Cas?” he said, and walked through the house, to the office. He could hear Cas’ voice on the phone as he approached the doorway to the sunroom, but he sounded different. Angry. Really angry, super pissed. Dean slowed down, listening. He’d missed the meat of the conversation, it seemed, and was only catching the end. Cas had his back to the door.

_“Do not fucking call me again._ Do you understand me?” Cas paused, and then dialed off of his call. He set his cell phone down carefully, and ran a hand through his hair. “Fucker,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

Dean watched him breathe for a moment, then said, “Cas?”

Cas jumped in seat, swiveling around. He looked red-face, but otherwise composed. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “Dean! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry,” Dean said quickly. “Everything okay?”

Cas gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course.”

Dean nodded slowly. He hovered for a moment. “I got somethin’ I wanna talk to you about. Are-…?”

“I just have a few things to finish up in here,” Cas said, and turned back to the computer. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

“Uh… okay.” Dean backed away from the office, and returned to the living room, feeling the sting of the obvious dismissal.

Dean sat on the sofa and flipped on the TV, frowning. What the fuck was that about? It sure as shit wasn’t a student, or a telemarketer, to whom Castiel showed annoying politeness. It surely hadn’t been his parents, or his brother.

_An ex?_

Dean’s stomach flip-flopped at the thought. He certainly had a few “exes” he’d told to never fucking call him again, to one degree or the other. Dean pulled a leg up to his chest, his frown deepening. He’d always been ambiguous with Cas about his exes, and Cas had been similar. He didn’t know the name of anyone Cas had been with in the past, just as Cas had never asked about Dean’s exes.

Was that normal? Dean scratched his stubble, at a loss. He really didn’t know. How fucking pathetic was that? He didn’t even know how a normal relationship was supposed to go. What the fuck. The closest he’d ever gotten to that subject in the past was _Are ya clean? Well, all-righty, then._ Dean blushed a little, feeling almost ashamed.

He heard Cas behind him, and he turned to watch him walk into the room. “I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas said, and sat down on the couch, still in his suit pants and button-down. “I have two final exams to give this week, and neither of them were quite finished.”

Dean tried to grin. “You don’t just give the same test every year?”

“Certainly not,” Cas said primly. Dean rolled his eyes, and Cas touched his shoulder. “You had something to tell me?”

Dean bit his lip, trying to decide if he wanted to push it or not. _Coward,_ his mind whispered. “I… uh… I quit bartending. Err… put in my two weeks, I guess.”

“What?” Cas said, his mouth opening in surprise.

“One of the guys I work with at the garage quit. So, I, I went other boss’ office and I told him to make me full time, or I’m done. Just gonna focus on bartending for a while, or find another garage.” Then he felt it, the joy sweeping back in to him. “He made me full time and gave me a raise.”

“That’s great!” Cas said. “Oh, Dean, well done.”

Dean felt a giddy laugh bubble out of him. “Thanks. I’m… I’m pretty happy about it. I’m just gonna do two more weekends at the bar, and then I’m done.”

Cas broke into a real, back-of-the-teeth smile, and wrapped Dean up in a hug. “I’m so happy for you.” Dean blushed, squeezed Cas tight. “You’re doing so well. Finishing your degree, moving your career forward.” He shook his head against Dean’s shoulder. “I am really proud of you.”

He somehow managed to say it sincerely, without being patronizing. Dean leaned against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Cas sat back, still smiling. “We might even get to spend time together during daylight hours.”

“No kiddin’,” Dean said.

“We should celebrate. Do you want to go out for a drink?”

“Yeah! Sure,” Dean said.

“Have you eaten yet?” Cas got off of the couch, and went over to pull his coat out of the closet.

“No… Can we go somewhere with food?”

Cas hummed, threading his arms into his coat. “How about that horrible place you love? Um… Jack Rabbit’s?”

Dean chuckled, and bounced off of the couch. “That sounds good.”

***

“Did I tell you I got the reservation?” Dean said. “In Palo Alto.”

Cas frowned over the remains of his burger. They’d had beers, burgers, and were still picking at the dregs. The bar was full to the brim, music playing over the chattering conversation, and they’d been lucky to get a tall table near the windows.

“Which hotel?” Cas said, suspiciously.

Dean snickered. “Relax, princess. It’s a Hilton. Bedbug-free, guaranteed.”

“Hmm.” Cas sipped his beer, and looked out the window at the street. “I wish you would let me pay for part of it.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “No. Aright? I told you – I invited you, _I’m_ payin’ for the hotel.” After a beat, he added, “‘Sides, you’re buyin’ my dinner tonight.” Cas watched him for a moment. “Speaking of which,” Dean said, and lifted his empty beer glass with a grin.

Cas let out a laugh and shook his head, sliding off of the stool, wavering just a little. “Very well.” Clearly tipsy, maybe one step away from drunk. “I’m going to use the restroom. Let the waitress know two more if she ever comes back.”

“Okay,” Dean said, and watched him walk off toward the bathrooms. His eyes scanned the crowd, which was swollen and crammed around the bar. Just the sight of it made Dean feel a rush of relief that he only had two more weekends bartending.

Someone was looking back at him, a tall, burly guy with a close reddish-grey beard, his eyebrows together. Dean stared back for a moment, suddenly recognizing him, the image not fitting quite right in his mind.

“Benny?” he said, and the man moved over to the table. “I don’t… _Benny?_ ”

“Holy shit, kid!” Benny said. “Is that you?” Dean slid off of the stool and Benny grabbed him and pulled him into a tight hug, his hands going a little lower on Dean’s waist than was probably appropriate. And then Benny actually moved in like he was going to fucking _kiss him,_ and Dean quickly turned his head to the side so Benny’s kiss caught him on the cheek. He put his hands on Benny’s shoulders and pushed him back, still grinning.

“I can’t believe this! What the hell are you doin’ here?”

“I just got back a few days ago.” Dean could tell right away that Benny had been drinking for a while, and he was pretty drunk – he was red-faced and a little sweaty, and he leaned against Dean’s hands where they were braced on his shoulder.

“What? What happened with New Orleans? I… here, come sit down.” Dean sat in one of the high chairs, and Benny sat down right next to him instead of across from him. Shit. “So, what happened?”

Benny had slimmed down a bit since Dean had last seen him, and he still smelled the same, musky and warm. Dean could admit it – he looked fucking great. “Ah… got all the family shit settled. Tried to make a go of it in New Orleans, but the rent down there is like you would not fuckin’ believe.”

“Are you gonna reopen the restaurant?” Dean said.

Benny shrugged, and nodded. “Thinkin’ about it. You gonna come work for me if I do?”

Dean felt his face heat. “Uh, um, maybe. That would be cool, huh? Just like old times.”

Benny was watching him with a warm, almost-smug smile on his face, and then Dean felt his hand rest on Dean’s thigh. “Shit, kid. It’s real good to see you.”

Dean shifted, was about to tell him to keep his mitts to himself, that this ship had sailed, when he saw Cas walking up to the table. He had a whiskey in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other, and he was starting to frown. Cas set the drinks on the table, a little harder than was probably necessary.

“Hey!” Dean said, a little too loud, shifting his leg away from Benny’s hand. “There you are. Long line for the toilet?” He picked up the whiskey, and said, “Cas, this is Benny Lafitte. We knew each other, uh… what? Shit. Three, four years ago? That when you ditched me?”

Benny let out a tight, uncomfortable laugh, looking between Cas and Dean. “That sounds about right.”

“Benny, this is Cas Shurley,” Dean said, nodding to Cas.

Cas put out a hand, and Benny shook it. “His boyfriend,” Cas said, pointedly, when Dean didn’t. Dean felt his stomach twist, and he nodded quickly.

“Ah, yeah, yup.”

Cas slid into the chair across from Dean, and primly sipped his drink, watching Dean and Benny inscrutably. Benny took a long drink of his own Long Island.

“So,” Dean said. “Uh. Benny was just tellin’ me that he moved back here.”

“Just came back to see you, of course,” Benny said, glancing at Cas out of the corner of his eye.

Dean huffed out a laugh. “Oh, bullshit. Tell me more about New Orleans.” 

They talked for a little bit, not too terribly long, but longer than he meant to. Dean wasn’t an idiot – he could tell Cas was uncomfortable, being quiet and carefully sipping his drink. And besides that, Dean and Benny had ended pretty bad. Not ugly, just bad. But they had also been friends, right? And it just felt nice to talk to an old friend, someone who’d known him a long time. But goddamn Benny was being handsy as hell, touching Dean’s arm and leg every chance he got, and Dean did his best to keep shrugging him off.

A waitress dashed up to scoop up their dirty plates, and then she dropped a handful of receipts and a credit card on the table.

“Thank you,” Cas murmured. He scrawled a signature out on the receipt, and laid it on the edge of the table under the pen.

“You paid?” Dean said.

“A little while ago,” Cas said.

“Ain’t that nice,” Benny said. “Havin’ someone pick up the tab.”

Cas frowned at him, sliding his card into his wallet, while Dean stiffened. What the fuck did that mean?

“It wasn’t too long ago that I was the one pickin’ up your tab,” Benny continued, and took another slug of his drink.

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?” Dean said. “When the hell did we ever go anywhere?”

Benny snorted. “All the time!”

Dean stared at him, at a loss. The two of them had never gone much further than a bar back office, and Dean’s apartment.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Cas said suddenly, scraping his chair back on the floor. He disappeared off into the crowd. Benny watched him go, and then leaned close to Dean.

“So. Things are serious between you two?” he said, resting an elbow on the table, almost conspiratorially. Dean could smell the liquor and sour on his breath, and it turned his stomach.

“Yeah,” he said, firmly. “We’ve been together about, uh. About two years, a little more.”

Benny nodded. “And things are good?”

“Yeah. They’re fine.” Dean frowned. “Why?”

Benny shrugged one shoulder. “’Cuz I miss you.”

Goddamn. Fucking goddamn. Dean felt his stomach go tight, his hands close into fists.

Benny’s eyes dropping to Dean’s chest, his legs, and he set his hand again on Dean’s thigh, higher this time, dangerously close to Dean’s crotch. “Miss your body. I shouldn’t have left you here alone. Always regretted it.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. He wanted to hit Benny between right between his bloodshot eyes. “Are you outta your fuckin’ mind? You told me you needed someone who had his shit together. Remember?” 

Benny looked troubled. “Yeah. I remember.” He squeezed Dean’s thigh. “I… was stupid. Took you for granted.”

“Benny,” Dean said, slowly. Benny had to just be drunk. He normally had more tact. “What the hell are you doin’, man? You know I’m with someone. You’ve been starin’ at him for the last hour.”

“So, I missed my chance, then?” Benny said, with a sly smile. “You’re sure of this one?”

Dean scowled. “Yeah. I’m sure. I prefer guys who don’t cheat on me.”

“I didn’t cheat on you,” Benny protested. His hand was still on Dean’s thigh, and Dean was about ready to snap his fingers off. “I-…”

“No. I know,” Dean said. “Can’t cheat on someone you’re not _really_ in a relationship with, right? Man, you better get your hand off my fuckin’ leg, or I swear to God.” 

Benny’s hand disappeared from his leg, and Benny sighed. “I told you, I was bein’ stupid. I-…”

Cas dropped into the seat across from them, and he gave Dean a flat stare. “So,” he said. “How did you two meet? I don’t believe that’s come up yet.”

Dean looked at Benny expectantly, and Benny blew out a long breath. “Ah… work, I think, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, feeling something almost like relief. _Remember? Remember how bad it was? Remember how much he really didn’t care? He doesn’t get to come crawling back now._ “You hired me when I first moved to Kansas City.”

“Right! That’s right. I hired Dean to bartend at my old restaurant.”

“You two, what…” Cas said. “Friends? Dated?”

“We were just friends,” Benny said, as Dean said, “We were together.” They looked at each other, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“Just fuck-buddies, then?” Cas said, low and venomous.

Benny snorted out a laugh, and Dean looked at Cas. “Uh, Jesus, Cas.”

“Hmph.” Cas picked his coat up out of his chair, and threaded his arms through it. “I’m ready to leave. Dean, I’ll see you outside.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the bar, moving easily through the crowd.

“Oooh, someone’s in trouble,” Benny laughed.

“Fuck you, man,” Dean snapped. He shoved his chair back. “You got no goddamn right.”

“Ah, Dean, c’mon!” Benny called, but Dean was already hustling away, through the crowd to follow Cas. He caught up to him in the parking lot, almost to the car.

“Cas, wait,” Dean said. “Would ya slow down?”

Cas turned to look at him, and Dean winced. He looked about as pissed-off as Dean had ever seen him.

“Take me home,” Cas said, coolly, and pointed himself back to the car. “Or would you prefer to stay? I’m happy to take the bus.”

Dean followed him to the car. He’d felt higher than the moon just a few hours earlier. Now he felt like shit.

Cas was silent as they drove the roads back to his house. Dean was hunched in his own seat, fingers tight on the steering wheel. He swallowed, glanced at Cas, then back at the road.

“Would ya say something?” he finally said. “Are you pissed at me?”

Cas let out a sour laugh, and stared out the window. “Not at all. By the way, please remind me to invite you out the next time one of my exes is in town. He and I can play footsie while you watch.”

“That wasn’t… I didn’t…” Dean took a breath. “It wasn’t like that. Stop bein’ so fuckin’ dramatic.”

“Oh, please,” Cas said. “You panicked the first time I kissed you in public. You can barely bring yourself to hold my hand. But you’ll let _Benny_ feel you up in the middle of a bar. His hand was practically down your pants.”

“No, it wasn’t! Goddamn!” Dean looked at him quickly, then back at the road. “Look, okay? I’m sorry if you were, I dunno, feeling left out or somethin’. I didn’t mean to do that. I was just happy to see him, okay? I ain’t seen him in years. And he was just… he was just bein’ a dumb drunk.”

“Do not _patronize_ me,” Cas snarled, and his voice was so cold it made Dean’s heart stutter. “And don’t act like I don’t have a reason to be upset.”

“You _don’t,”_ Dean snapped back. “You got no reason to be actin’ like this. What about you, huh?”

Cas ran a hand through his hair. “What _about_ me?”

“What about _your_ ex, huh? I know you were talkin’ to them today. On the phone.”

Cas was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “And how do you know that?”

“Oh, who the hell else would it have been? Fuck, Cas,” Dean said. “This may shock you, but I’m not stupid.”

“I have _never once thought you were stupid,”_ Cas said, and the emotion in his voice shocked Dean. “ _Never once.”_ Then he shook his head, and looked out the passenger side window until they were pulling up into his driveway.

Cas took off his seatbelt, not looking at him. “Go home, Dean. I want to spend some time by myself.”

“What?” Dean said, his voice high and strangled. “Why?”

“Because I need some time to think.” Cas got out of the car, shutting the door carefully behind him.

Dean got out of the car. “Cas-…” he started, but Cas whirled around. Dean could see his eyes were glittering under the porch light.

“ _Don’t,”_ he hissed, staring back at Dean. Then he turned around, keyed inside, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Dean stood there like a deer in the headlights for almost a minute. Then he crawled back into his car, and drove to his apartment, feeling like he’d just taken a punch.

***

Goddamn Benny. BennyBennyBenny. Benny had hired Dean at his restaurant, Lafitte’s, right after he moved to Kansas City. First as a busboy, then a few weeks later he was bumped up to a sever, and then, after two months he was behind the bar.

“You bartended much before?” Benny said one night, when it was slow. Dean was mixing a gin ricky, and he slid it across the bar to the customer.

“Yeah, a bit,” Dean said, shrugging one shoulder. “Worked in a bar when I lived in Sioux Falls, this big old dump called the Roadhouse. Mostly beers and shots, though.”

“Uh-huh,” Benny said. Dean caught him checking out his ass, and he blushed and pretended he hadn’t seen.

It was inevitable, of course, since Benny was blatantly checking him out, and Dean didn’t have any self-control around older guys. And he was desperately lonely since moving to Kansas City, maybe more alone than he’d ever felt. When Dean felt like that, he did stupid shit.

One Saturday, not long after that, Dean was in the back office to get his share of the tips. They were closed and had cleaned up already, and it was pushing 3AM. Benny counted out a handful of cash, and walked around the desk to put the money right into Dean’s hand.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbled, feeling shy and awkward, knowing this was a bad idea. Whatever was coming, it was a bad idea. Benny was his boss. _He my fuckin’ boss,_ he thought.

“You headin’ home?” Benny said, leaning back against the desk. They were close enough that Dean could feel his body heat, but he couldn’t make himself step back.

“Prob’ly,” he said.

Benny nodded, his eyes lingering on Dean’s lips. “Mmh. Too bad.” He felt Benny’s fingers on his belt, slowly hooking onto his waistband and pulling him closer.

Dean was the one who kissed him, he thought, or maybe they moved together at the same time. Benny was rough, and he kissed Dean hard, not a bit of preamble, shoving his tongue in Dean’s mouth and reaching around to grip his ass. He yanked Dean against him, slotting his knee between Dean’s thighs, and Dean whimpered into his mouth.

“Fuck, Benny!” he grunted, pulling back for a moment. “You don’t waste any time, do ya?”

Benny snorted, squeezing Dean’s ass again. “I dunno. You want me to waste time? Could invite you out for coffee or something.”

Dean ground against Benny’s leg, like his dick had a mind of its own. “Mmh. It’s too late for coffee.”

Benny howled with laughter. “C’mere, kid. You wanna suck me off?” he said, and jerked his fly open. “Huh?”

“Uh… s-sure,” Dean said. Benny actually shoved him down to kneel on the floor, and he opened his pants and pushed his boxers down under his balls. Benny’s cock was a little short and really thick. It felt good, taking him into his mouth, the familiar motion, and he sucked Benny eagerly, wanting to get him off fast so Benny would get his hands back on him.

Benny was hard and leaking in Dean’s mouth as he sucked him, and he groaned out, “Fu-u-uck, I knew it, knew you’d be a good little cocksucker with a mouth like that. _Fuck… yeah…_ knew you wanted it…”

The dirty talk made Dean’s dick harder, straining against his fly. He opened his jeans and shoved a hand into his briefs to give himself some relief, stroked himself slowly.

“Gonna… gonna cum in your mouth…” Benny bit out. “Gonna cum down your _fuckin’ throat…”_ He grabbed Dean by the hair, making him wince, but he didn’t push Benny off. Dean let him fuck into his mouth until he came, and Dean swallowed it. Benny let out a quiet laugh as Dean got to his feet, wiping his mouth on his hand. “Fuckin’ knew you’d give good head.”

“Shut up,” Dean said, blushing.

“Ah, don’t be like that. C’mon.” Benny pulled Dean against his body, pushed a hand into Dean’s underwear and gripped his erection.

Dean grunted, wrapped an arm around Benny’s shoulders to hold on to him. Benny jerked him off quickly, made him whine.

“Fuck, _fuck,_ I’m gonna… _ah… mmh…”_ Dean pushed his head against Benny’s shoulder and thrust into his hand as he came. Benny chuckled quietly, and grabbed a tissue off his desk to wipe his hand. Dean adjusted himself, fixed up his pants. He leaned forward to kiss Benny, and Benny turned his head away, scowling.

Dean leaned back, staring at him. “Are you… fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” he said.

“Come on,” Benny said, and tossed the tissues into the trash. “Gross.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment, and then shoved him hard away and moved to leave the office, furious and overwhelmed.

“Wait,” Benny said, catching his arm.

“Lemme go.”

“Wait. Shit. Don’t be like that.”

“I sucked your dick and you won’t even give me a kiss? Go fuck yourself,” Dean said. “Get sucked by someone else, asshole.”

Benny pulled him back, and grabbed his chin. “Fair enough,” he said, and kissed him. Dean resisted for a moment, still pissed-off, and then gave in and wrapped his arms around Benny’s neck. “I’m an asshole,” Benny murmured against his lips, and grabbed Dean’ ass to keep him flush against him. “Sorry.”

“Fuckin’ asshole,” Dean growled, leaning heavily against Benny’s body.

Benny nuzzled against his throat, his beard scraping against his skin. “Yeah, well. You wouldn’t be the first to say so.”

Dean had worried that it would be awkward the next day, but Benny didn’t treat him any differently during work hours. Maybe he touched him a little more – a few more touches on his arm or shoulder, maybe the occasional brush on his back, but Benny could clearly be subtle. Hooking up in the back after hours became a regular thing. The rest of the staff probably figured it out, Dean thought. They had to have. But Dean knew better, and kept his mouth shut.

After a couple months, though, the office was losing its appeal. Dean wanted to go further, do more, but the cramped back room didn’t offer the time, space, or privacy for much more than handies and under-the-desk blow jobs.

Dean and Benny were behind the bar one night. It was slow, just the two of them and the guys in the kitchen.

“You can come by tonight,” Dean said, splashing ginger beer over a mule. “If you want.”

“Oh, yeah?” Benny said. Dean nodded, not looking at him.

“Can text you my address.”

“All right, then,” Benny said, and Dean could hear the smile in his voice.

Dean sent Benny his address on his way home. He showered and laid on his bed in his studio in his tee-shirt and jeans, studying the cracks in the ceiling. Finally, he heard the buzz of the door, and he let Benny in and waited for him to knock. He whipped the door open without hiding his eagerness.

“Hey,” Benny said.

“Hi.” Dean grinned, and reached out for him. Benny gathered him in his arms, and kissed him deeply, shoving the door shut behind him. Benny practically carried him to the bed, deposited him on the mattress.

“This is better than the office,” Benny said into his throat.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He pushed Benny’s coat off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor. “You can, um. You can fuck me.”

“Yeah?”

“I want it. Been thinkin’ about it.”

“Ooh-hoo, you’re ready for it, ain’t ya,” Benny said, and his teeth grazed Dean’s throat, and then his collar bone. “Let’s get these clothes off ya, huh?”

“Mmh.” Dean pulled off his tee-shirt, and Benny tugged at the waistband of his pants. Dean pushed out from under him to wriggle out of the rest of his clothes, and Benny stripped bare and left his clothes on a pile on the floor. He slid up to the head of Dean’s bed, and Dean climbed into his lap. He grabbed his supplies out of the bedside table, and Benny took the lube out of his hands.

“Want me to finger you? Want me to stretch your little hole out? Huh?” Benny said, already lubing his fingers up. “Kneel up for me.”

Dean pushed up on to his knees, holding on to Benny’s shoulders. Benny worked his thick fingers into Dean, and Dean rode his hand for a while, until his cock was hard against his stomach.

“You wanna ride me? Huh? Wanna ride this cock?”

“Mmh… yeah…” Dean got out. Benny’s stout fingers slid out of his ass, and he maneuvered Dean until he was kneeling over Benny’s prick. Benny had slid on one of Dean’s condoms, and he coated himself with lube. And then Benny’s thick cock was pressing against his hole, and Dean grunted and tried not to tense as Benny slid inside him. It _hurt_ for a minute – he wasn’t stretched out enough, but he didn’t mind, didn’t want to stop.

“Just gimme… a… s-se- _heh-_ cond…” Dean bit out, squeezing tight on Benny’s shoulders.

“Sorry, baby, you need me to stretch you some more?” Benny said. “Dick too big for ya?”

“No, no… No, I got it,” Dean said, and sat further on to Benny’s dick. “You’re just so fuckin’ thick, Benny, Goddammit.” He was sweating from the effort, and he finally got fully seated, Benny all the way inside him. He rested his head on Benny’s shoulder, breathing hard.

“You all right?” Benny rumbled.

“Yeah.” Dean rocked his hips. “Fuck, yeah.” Benny groaned as Dean fucked himself slowly, then grabbed his hips and worked him, fucked up into him. Dean held on to his shoulders, groaning.

“Can you cum like this?” Benny said.

“I dunno,” Dean panted. His cock was hard, but he could tell his orgasm was a ways off. “I like hands and knees more.”

“Hop off,” Benny said, and smacked his hand against Dean’s ass.

“ _Hey,”_ Dean warned, and Benny grinned at him. Dean pulled up off of Benny’s cock, sucking in a breath. He crawled up on his hands and knees. “Can you use some more lube?” he said, feeling almost shy for asking.

“Sure.” Dean watched Benny slick himself with more lube, and then Benny got behind him and pushed back in.

“ _F-F-Fuck!”_ Dean hissed. Benny fucked him hard, rougher than Dean was expecting.

“You like this? Benny huffed, thrusting hard. “You like it when I fuck you hard?”

“Uh – uh – _y-yeah… uh…”_

And then Benny took his arm and pulled it up behind his back.

“ _No!”_ Dean jerked his arm away and shoved Benny back, and Benny nearly fell off the bed, getting his feet under him to stand on the floor, staring at Dean in shock. “ _Not behind my back,”_ Dean snapped.

“Sorry!” Benny said, holding his hands up. “Shit!” He watched Dean like he was a wild animal, like he was dangerous.

“Do not try to put my hand behind my back,” Dean said, looking Benny rigidly in the eye.

“I got it,” Benny said. “Fuckin’ hell, kid. I got it.”

Dean let out a breath. “Sorry. I just don’t like.” He kneeled there for a moment, half-wanting to stop, half-wanting to crawl under the blankets and pull Benny under with him, lay there for the rest of the night. But Benny was still hard, so he leaned down, back onto his hands and tried to grin at him. “C’mon. You gonna leave me hangin’ here?”

Benny laughed quietly, and got back on the bed. “Not a chance.”

The sudden panic had distracted Dean, made him go soft, and Dean stroked himself back to hardness as Benny pushed back inside. Benny rested his hands on Dean’s shoulders, held him as he fucked him. Dean worked his cock until he came, his orgasm a little hollow, a little disappointing. He waited for Benny to finish up, feeling oddly disconnected.

Benny finally finished, and he pulled out and tied off the condom, and then laid on the bed beside Dean. Dean pressed close to Benny, running his fingers over his chest hair.

“What’s up? Was it good for you?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “It was real good.” He curled up against Benny’s chest, trying to will him to wrap his arms around him.

“Not the arm thing again?” Benny said.

Dean winced. “No. It’s fine. I’m, uh… glad you’re here, is all. Just… want everything to be okay with us.”

“Hmm.” Benny wrapped an arm around him and held him, but it felt… cold. Perfunctory. And Benny was tense beneath him, wouldn’t relax, so Dean couldn’t relax either.

“You okay?” Dean murmured.

“Yeah.” Benny shifted, and started to sit up, so Dean rolled off of him. Benny got off the bed, and picked up his crumbled clothes.

“You can stay, if…?”

“Nah,” Benny said, pulling his shirt over his head. “Gotta go.”

Dean sat up, pulling his blankets over his hips. “What? Why?” He tried to laugh. “Gotta get home to your wife?”

Benny chuckled. “Gotta water my plants.”

Dean smiled, but his insides were oily. “Aright. Don’t tell me.” He laid back down, and watched Benny dress. “Lock the door on your way out, would ya?”

They went on like that for almost a year. Looking back on those memories was like pressing on a bruise, made Dean sick with embarrassment. Had he really been so desperate for… what? Contact? Touch? Someone to spend time with? Probably. It wasn’t the first time he’d been dumb and desperate.

And then, just like that, Dean walked in to work to see the other bartenders and servers clustered together, talking. One of them told Dean the news – Lafitte’s was closing.

Dean went straight into the office, where Benny was sitting at his desk, looking bleakly at his computer. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” he demanded, dropping into the other chair.

Benny sat back, scrubbing his hands down his face. “I’m sellin’. Gonna take the money and move back to New Orleans.” He leaned into his accent when he said it – _Noahlins._

Dean sat, arrested in his seat, color rising in his face. “I…” He glanced back at the door, and pushed it shut. “Is… I mean, the place is always packed. Is it-…?”

“It’s not that.” Benny shook his head. “The place is doin’ fine. Gotta go back and take care of some family stuff. But… I don’t think I’ll be comin’ back to Kansas City. After.”

Dean ran his tongue over his lips. “Were you… were you gonna tell me, or was I just gonna find out when, when I came in to work and found the doors nailed shut?”

Benny stared at him. “I really don’t need this right now. I’m in shit-all as it is.”

“S-Sorry.” It came out of his mouth automatically. “Sorry. When are you goin’?”

Benny looked at the desk. “Two, three weeks.”

“Shit, Benny,” Dean said. “That’s… fast.”

“Yeah,” Benny said, but didn’t offer anything else.

Dean swallowed. “I. I could go with you,” he said.

Benny looked at him, frowning. “What?”

Dean held his gaze. “I could go with you. To New Orleans. I mean… there really ain’t shit for me here, you know? And I…” He reached over the desk, squeezed Benny’s hand. “I wanna be with you.” He tried to smile. “’Sides, if you reopen down there, you’re gonna need a bartender who knows the drinks.”

Benny stared at Dean’s hand for a long moment, and Dean’s heart leapt, thinking, certain that Benny was going to say yes. But Benny withdrew his hand.

“No, Dean.”

Dean’s brain wracked. He thought Benny was kidding for a moment. “I… really?”

“No. It’s… no.” Benny shook his head.

“Oh. Um.” Dean sat there like an idiot, a numbness descending over him like a cold blanket. “Wh… Why?” he said, quietly. “I thought… I mean… we were never really s-serious, I know, but…?”

Benny stared at him, his face frighteningly blank. “Brother. Come on.”

Dean stared back at him.

“It’s…” Benny sighed. “It was fun, Dean. But it was just sex. I’m… what. Fifteen, sixteen years older than you?”

Dean’s face heated, overwhelmingly. “Y-Yeah. I mean… It don’t bother me, though. I… does it bother you?”

“You’re a kid,” Benny said firmly. Dean, who was 25 by then, bristled to object. “And I need someone who has their shit together.” It felt like someone had covered him with thick cement. Dean couldn’t move, could suddenly barely breathe. “And I’m…” Benny shook his head. “I… shit. I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but… I’ve been seein’ someone else. And _we’re_ gettin’ serious. So…” He shrugged.

Dean swallowed hard, and got to his feet. His knees were shaky. “I, uh. I get it,” he mumbled. He left the office, and Benny, for once, didn’t call him back. Fine. Dean wasn’t going to beg.

Not long after that, Dean drove the three days and 1,800-ish miles across half of the country to Palo Alto, where he watched his younger brother graduate Summa from Stanford University. Sam, his younger brother, smart, successful, heading to law school on scholarship the next fall. Fuck, Dean couldn’t have been prouder.

He also couldn’t have been more embarrassed. _Me? Ah, just workin’ a few hours a week in a garage and bartending at a shitty hole-in-the-wall. You know how it goes._

Stuck. That was how he felt.

Sam had clapped him on the shoulder, and said, _You should really do something for yourself, Dean. Take a vacation, or something._

_I’m in California, ain’t I?_

Sam had laughed at that. _Take a few classes, then. Isn’t there a junior college or something in Kansas City?_

Indeed, there was. That winter, Dean had gone balls to the wall, and enrolled at Eisenhower Community College. Why not? He wanted to look at Business Management, but he had to shuffle his way through the remedial classes first, since even a lowly community college sneered at his GED.

And then, a pleasant surprise. A teacher with messy dark hair and startlingly blue eyes, a deep panther-purr of a voice, smart and interesting and funny, had allowed him to walk him to his truck, had flirted back when Dean had flirted with him and finally, finally accepted his invitation out for a drink. Finally, _finally,_ something good. 

***

Dean was still fully awake at four in the morning after his fight with Cas, after Benny had popped up out of nowhere after three goddamn years. Goddamn Benny. He had a lot of nerve making a drunk, sloppy pass at Dean after what he pulled.

Dean at up in bed, pushed the blankets off, and stood up to pace. Benny wasn’t the issue – Benny was done, over, gone. The issue was Cas, and his fucking noxious attitude whenever something didn’t go his way. Spoiled-rich-kid-syndrome. And… okay. Dean was also the issue, because he should have known better, should have done better. He should have said, _This is Cas, my boyfriend who I have been with for two years and love very much, now if you touch my leg again I’m gonna put you through the window._ Or maybe he should have just told Cas about Benny a long time ago. And maybe he should have said, _Cas, you sounded super-pissed on that phone call, can you please tell me who you were talking to so it doesn’t eat me up all night?_ Instead of throwing it in his face during a stupid fight.

“Shit.” Dean sat back down on the bed, and turned on the TV, not even to watch it, just wanting the background noise. He laid in bed and counted the cracks in the ceiling, waiting until sunrise. He dozed fitfully, jerking awake, falling back asleep, dreaming about broken glass and houses on fire until it was 7:30 and he gave up.

_From Dean: u awake?_

He waited, staring at the phone, his leg jiggling, until Cas texted back twenty minutes later.

_From Cas: Yes._

Less than a half-hour later, Dean was standing outside Cas’ door, trying to decide if he should key in like normal or if he should knock. He stood out there for so long that Cas beat him to the door. His face was lined and tired, and he was in his joggers and preppy, zip-up sweater.

“Hello, Dean,” he murmured. “I heard your car.”

Dean gaped at him like a fish, and then he said, “Yeah.”

Cas moved back into the house, leaving the door open, and Dean stepped inside and locked it behind him. He set down his keys and wallet, and hesitated on his shoes – what if he needed to make a quick exit? But Cas seemed pretty subdued compared to last night, so Dean slipped off his shoes, and hung his coat up.

Cas sat onto the couch – his big, fancy, rich-prick couch – and said, “Do you want some coffee? Breakfast?”

Dean shook his head. He was wired. “I’m. I’m okay.”

Cas gestured to the sofa. “Sit with me?”

Dean hovered for a moment, and then sat down, pulling one leg under him so he could sit facing Cas. “Um. Heh.” He tried to smile. “I thought I slept like shit.”

Cas mirrored his weak smile, and reached up to push on the loose skin around his eyes. “I haven’t slept alone in quite a while. I’d forgotten how cold that bed is without you.” Then he ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. “I…” He sighed. “I think I was feeling a little bit sensitive last night. I-…”

“I was just tryin’ to be nice to him,” Dean spit out quickly, cutting Cas off. “It wasn’t okay, how he was actin’. I should have put him down harder, I dunno. I guess I just missed him a little, is all, even though it, it ended bad between us, but we, uh, we were still friends first, so, so I just didn’t wanna be pissy with him, was just happy to see him, and I, I was just a dick to you, and-…”

“Dean,” Cas said, and laid a hand on his arm. “I know. You were being kind because you’re always kind.”

Dean blew out a hard breath. He sure as hell didn’t feel kind. “I shouldn’t have. Dunno why I gave him the time of day. He r-really treated me like shit sometimes. Like a dirty little secret. And then like I was a hooker he couldn’t get rid of.” Dean shook his head, and then, to his horror, he felt tears burning in his eyes. His wrist hurt suddenly, like a spark going off, and he reached over to squeeze it. “S-Sorry. I’m sorry, Cas, I’m just tired, is all.” He rubbed his eyes.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas said, and pulled Dean against him. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe I got in an argument with you about _boys._ Like we’re teenagers.”

Despite himself, Dean let out a laugh. “A real _meet-me-by-the-lockers_ fight.” He sniffed. “You don’t gotta worry about Benny, Cas. He dumped _me._ Okay?”

Cas hummed. “How long were you together?”

“We weren’t really… I mean. Shit. You heard him last night. I thought we were more serious than, than he did, obviously. We got together a little while after I moved here from Omaha. Um… I guess we were together ‘bout a year, maybe a little more. And then he moved back to New Orleans. And I’d’a gone with him if he asked, but he didn’t ask. Or… didn’t want me to.” Dean shrugged, shook his head. “He was also fuckin’ someone else by that point, so.”

“Wow,” Cas said. “What a shithead.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Dean shut his eyes and leaned against Cas, whose hand went up to stroke his hair. Dean loved that about Cas – he didn’t have to beg for him to be intimate like this without it moving to sex. Dean hated to call it _cuddling,_ but, well, if it walked like a duck…

“You were right. About the phone call,” Cas said, quietly. “It was an ex.”

“Ah, hell,” Dean groaned. “You don’t gotta… Cas. Forget it. I was just-…”

“No. It’s all right. In the interest of… clearing the air, I suppose. Of horrible exes.” He sighed. “God. Let me just get a picture.” He started to get up, but Dean held on to him tighter. Cas chuckled, and patted Dean’s back. “It’s just in the office.” Cas got to his feet, and Dean followed him back into the office.

Cas’ office was in a sunroom, nice and insulated with A/C and heat so it could be used four seasons. It would be a _nice_ sunroom, if it wasn’t crammed full with book and boxes, old student files and papers that Cas had hoarded up like a rat gathering materials for a nest. Cas had bought the house five, six years ago, and there were still taped-up boxes shoved in the corners and around the desk from the original move.

“Jeezus, Cas,” Dean said, standing in the doorway. “This place is a real mess, ya know?”

“Yes, well,” Cas said, picking his way over an open box, and crouching down in front of another. “You can organize it for me when you move in.”

Dean’s hand tightened on the doorway. When he what? Cas dug through the box, seemingly unaware of the bomb he had set off.

Cas wanted Dean to move in with him. Said it like it was an absolute – not an if, but a when. _When you move in._

It was hard to breathe for a moment, and Dean thought with panic that he might tear up again. He took a deep, slow breath, and watched Cas burrow up to his elbows in files.

“Ah. Here we are.” Cas withdrew a slim, heavy cardboard box, something that a designer wallet or belt would have come wrapped up in. He held it up, almost triumphantly. He slid the top off of the box as he left the office, and Dean followed him back to the sofa.

Cas set the box on his lap. Inside, Dean could see a pile of photos.

“Oh, look! My brother’s wedding.” Cas held up a photo of a wedding party standing up at an altar. The bride was a pretty, wide-eyed redhead in an expensive looking white gown, flanked by bridesmaids in navy blue, and the groom was tall man in a black-tie tux, flanked by groomsmen dressed the same. One of them was a decade-younger-looking Cas. Cas pointed out the people in the photo – “That’s Anna, my brother Michael, Gabriel, and me.”

“Claire, Mike, and Asher are their kids, right?” Cas had pictures of them on his desk at the school, on the walls here in his house.

Cas nodded. “Yes.” He flipped through the photos, pursing his lips.

“Oh, shit. Is that Balthazar?” Dean picked up a photo.

“Ha! Yes. Wow, that’s old.” It was a very bad photo of Balthazar, looking very, very drunk, in a very ugly, bright pink shirt, glittering plastic beads around his neck. “We went to Bourbon Street for Mardi Gras once. Years ago.”

“You gotta frame that for him. Give it to him for his birthday.”

“That’s a great idea.” Cas set the photo aside.

“Which one’s that?” Dean said, pointing at another photo – a younger Cas sitting in a hospital chair, holding a swaddled, pink newborn.

Cas studied the photo, smiling warmly. “Claire. She was such a quiet baby.”

Dean took the picture out of Cas’ hand. “Cute,” he mumbled.

“Ah. Here we go.” Cas selected a photo, and held it out for Dean to see. A man sitting on a park bench, tall and blond with a deep part, a real young-republicans type, wearing a light blue button-down. Cas was sitting beside him, maybe ten years younger. “Bartholomew,” he said. “We met in grad school, at Washington University in St. Louis. Our families had the same social circle, so we had to be… pretty careful. Neither of our families knew, so we really didn’t go out, or do anything in public.” He rolled his eyes. “What was it you said? A dirty little secret?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.”

“I suppose that’s what it was like. After I got my Masters, I moved to Kansas City, and he got a job in St. Louis. We were long distance, just seeing each other weekends for a long time. I didn’t mind.” Cas looked at the photo for a moment, then tucked it back into the box. “At some point during the years we lived apart, he started dating a woman.” Cas looked at Dean, and gave him a sad smile. “He broke up with me over the phone, the day after he proposed to her.”

Dean scoffed. “What a fucker.”

“Yes. Greedy fucker.” Cas shook his head. “Cheated on me for years, and I was none the wiser.” He sighed. “That wouldn’t have been so bad, I suppose, if it had just ended there. But he called me, maybe a year and a half later. Told me that he and his wife were separating, and he wanted to see me. So, I said, okay.”

Cas tossed the box of photos on to the coffee table, and ran his hands down his face. “I told myself I was just going to talk to him, I didn’t want to let anything happen, but we… well.”

“You had sex?” Dean said.

Cas sighed. “Yes. I fell asleep after, and woke up to him on the phone with her. Talking about their _baby.”_ He shook his head, looking absolutely miserable.

“What… what did you do?” Dean said.

“I threw him out. Told him if he ever called me again, I’d call his wife.”

Dean grinned. “Atta boy.”

Cas shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose seeing Benny with you… brought up some bad… _stuff.”_ He dropped his head back against the sofa. _“_ I was such an idiot. _Separated._ What a laugh. I should never have let him come over. He has three kids now, and I’m sure he’s still cheating on her. And I was a party to it. To his infidelity. It just makes me feel disgusting. Just so dirty, like I need a shower.” He sat up. “The piece of shit still texts me, every once in a while. Feeling out the situation, I’m sure. As if I would ever let him through the door again.”

“And he called yesterday?”

Cas snorted. “Yes. I answered, told him that I was with you and he could go straight to Hell.”

“Ah, Cas. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Dean scratched his stubble. “Why don’t you just block him?”

Cas frowned at him. “How do you do that?”

“Jesus, Cas.” Cas, lightweight and luddite. Still had a landline, insisted his students printed out their papers and handed them in physically, too chicken to buy a new car because _What if it has a computer in it?_ Dean held out his hand, and Cas pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and set it in Dean’s palm. “Is he in your address book?”

“Yes. So I know when not to answer.” 

Dean tapped through Cas’ phone, scrolled to the _Bartholomew_ contact, and hit Block.

“There. Done and done.”

Cas stared blankly at his phone. “Jesus Christ. Was it really that easy? This entire time?” He shook his head. He dropped his head against Dean’s shoulder. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Dean leaned forward to kiss him, and then he opened the camera on Cas’ phone.

“No! Dean, I look horrible.”

“Shut up, ya big girl.” Dean held up the phone, and Cas wrapped his arms around him, hiding half of his face behind Dean’s head as Dean took the selfie. “There. Somethin’ else for your box.” He gave Cas back his phone, and laid back on the couch, his head on one of the couch pillows. “I’m takin’ a nap.”

“Mmh. Good idea.” Cas laid beside him, half on top of him. Dean grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, and Cas, for once, didn’t complain, just pulled the blanket over them and rested his head on Dean’s shoulder.

***

It was the day of their fight out to California, and Dean was sweating bullets. He’d admitted to Cas that he hated flying, _hated_ flying, would have driven if he could miss that much work.

“I’m not spending three days on the road just to turn around and come right back after the ceremony,” Cas had said firmly. “We’re flying.”

So here they were, in the back of a cab, driving up to the Departures lane at Kansas City International. It was an early flight, so they had hurried out and skipped breakfast, and Dean was hovering somewhere in the worst place between hungry and nauseated. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and stared out at the crowd. The Departures lane was busy, cars and cabs swooping up to drop people off, and overhead, Dean could hear the horrible screaming of jets taking off.

The cab rolled to a stop, and Cas shoved his credit card through the window before Dean could dig out cash for the fee. Dean didn’t have the strength to fight him for it; he’d been up all night, tossing and turning, knowing Cas was wide awake beside him.

Dean pulled himself out of the cab, and grabbed his duffel and Cas’ rolling suitcase out of the trunk. Cas had his preppy messenger bag, too, with his laptop and final papers still to grade. Grading, grading, grading – did it ever stop?

“Thank you.” Cas took his suitcase from Dean, and rolled it behind him as he strode up into the airport, all business. Dean trailed after him, looking around in terror, following Cas blindly until Cas halted in a line leading up to flight check-in.

“I think I’m going to check my bag,” Cas said. “I really don’t want to carry it with me on the plane.”

“Huh?” Dean tore his eyes away from the looming _Arrivals_ screen. “What?”

Cas looked up from his phone. “I’m checking my bag.”

“Oh.” Dean blinked at him. “Uh… o-okay.”

“Do you want to check yours?”

“Um…” Dean rocked back on his heels. “It… costs money, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Cas pocketed his phone. “Twenty or thirty dollars, I think.”

“Christ!” Dean rolled his eyes. “Seriously? No, thanks. I’ll shove this in the carry-on.” He looked at his bag. “Um… it’ll fit, right?”

Cas looked at his bag. It was a stubby little duffel that was fraying at the edges. Dean had had it since he was a teenager. “Yes.”

They checked in for their flight, Cas paying the offensive fee to check his bag. Dean bit his lips together keep from griping at him. He could eat off of thirty bucks for two weeks. Hell, he’d made less stretch longer before.

Dean followed Cas through the TSA security check – which was less horrific than he’d been expecting, after the horror stories he’d read on the internet. Walking around in just his socks was weird, he could practically feel the x-ray machine giving him cancer, and one of the officers pulled him out of line to feel around his shoulder and wrist with impersonal, gloved fingers, but that was it.

While they were putting their shoes and belts back on, Cas said, “Are you hungry?”

Dean almost groaned with relief. “ _Yes,_ ” he said. “For the love of God. I’m starvin’ to death.”

Being in an airport was unlike anything Dean had experienced before. The closest thing Dean could compare it to from his own experience was a casino. It was like a maze, just going on and on, like it was deliberately designed to keep people trapped inside, keep spending money. People were shopping, eating in small restaurants, and some people were even drinking.

They stopped in at a café-type restaurant with small wooden tables that people had their suitcases clustered around. Dean got a big plate of bacon and eggs, forcing himself not to look at the price on the menu.

“This place, is, uh… pretty wild,” he said. “I mean, uh. All these people, ya know? It’s just weird in here.”

Cas nodded, picking at his omelet.

Dean took a glug of coffee. “Everything okay? You’re kinda quiet.”

Cas looked at him, and gave him a weak smile. “Yes. I’m fine. I’m…” He sat back in his seat, looked out at the crowd. “I’m a little nervous, I suppose.”

“What?” Dean said. “Why? You fly all the time!”

Cas gave Dean a flat look, the look that said, _You’ve missed the point entirely, jackass._ “Not about the flight. I’m meeting your family, Dean,” he said. “Most people get a little anxious when they meet their partner’s family for the first time.”

Dean snorted. “Nothin’ to be nervous about. They’re gonna think you’re great.” He shoved a heap of food into his mouth. “Trust me. You and Sam’ll get along like a house on fire. You two college boys will have loads to talk about. And Bobby…” Dean blew out a breath. “Well. He’s a little… rough. Ya know. But he’s a real nice guy. They’re gonna love you. And, uh… I love you. So.” He shrugged.

It has a half-truth, but he would put on a brave face for Cas. Of course Dean was nervous about Sam and Bobby meeting Cas. He knew nothing bad was going to happen, probably. He knew Sam and Jess would like Cas, would probably like him a lot (Jess would probably like Cas more than she liked Dean). But Bobby was a wild card. Dean imagined, briefly, Bobby’s face peering at him from under his baseball cap, his eyes too-knowing, full of disappointment.

Dean felt a new trill of anxiety, and shook himself. No. Time enough to panic about that after the flight. _One crisis at a time._

Cas smiled at him. “You can be awfully sweet when you feel like it.”

Dean blushed, and shoveled more food into his mouth. “Look. They’re probably gonna be more relieved than anything. After the last few winners I messed around with…” He shook his head. “Trust me.”

Cas reached out, and discreetly squeezed his hand.

There wasn’t much else to do but sit in the terminal and wait for the plane. Cas sat in his chair and stared blandly at his laptop, looking bored. _Bored!_ As if they weren’t about to vacuum-seal themselves in a tin can and fly up seven fucking miles into the air, and hurtle five hundred fucking miles per hour toward California. Like that was just… _okay._

Dean was suddenly flush with a burst of energy, and he jerked to his feet. Then, realizing there was nowhere to go, he sat back down. The airport food churned in his gut.

Cas looked up from his computer. “Are you all right?”

“I…” Dean cleared his throat, wiped his hands on his thighs. “Have I… mentioned… I’m not a great flyer?”

“You have.” Cas watched him for a moment. “When was the last time you flew?”

“Not since…” Dean shook his head. “Not since Mom was still alive. I just remember freaking out, and, uh… puking the whole time.”

Cas nodded slowly, and looked up at the ETA screen. Their flight was running ten minutes late. “Drink some water,” he said, and gave Dean the bottle he’d bought at the restaurant. “Everything will be all right.”

“I think I’m gonna…” Dean jumped to his feet again. “Just gonna walk around a little.”

“Do you want me to-…?”

“Nah, no, I’m aright. Just need to move.” Dean walked off down through the terminal, hands shoved in his pockets. He walked the length of it once, and then wandered through some of the shops, scowling at the price tags. In his panic that morning, he’d forgotten to grab a book, so he stopped in one shop that looked like it was half-bookstore, half-souvenir shop. He thumbed through a Stephen King novel for a few minutes, and then he checked his watch, and bit the bullet and paid for the book. 

He wandered back to his seat beside Cas. Dean hadn’t realized how much sitting around and waiting was involved with flying.

“All right?” Cas said as Dean plopped down in the seat. Dean grunted.

The plane finally arrived, twenty minutes late, and the passengers streamed off. While they waited to board, Cas packed his computer back up, and Dean sat, unable to read or mess around on his phone, unable to do anything but stare out at the hulking white monstrosity.

People were starting to get up, to line up to board, but Cas didn’t get up until what must have been the last minute.

“Our seats are assigned,” Cas said, when he saw Dean checking his watch. “They’ll be there no matter what. There’s no reason to rush.”

“Oh. Uh… r-right.”

Finally, Cas stood up, and Dean followed him down the long, claustrophobic tunnel to the plane.

The plane was even more cramped than he’d expected. It was literally one long, horrible metal tube, people crammed in on both sides, slack faces peering up at him like the heads of fish in a sardine can. Dean followed Cas back to their seats. He shoved his bag up into the overhead bin, and stepped over the man who was already sat in the aisle seat. Dean took the window (he was fucking crammed in, his legs bunched up against the seat in front of him), and Cas sat in the middle. Dean dug his phone out of his pocket, and sent a text to Sam – _On the plane, see you soon._ He turned off his phone, and pushed it back into his pocket.

The flight attendants came out and did their emergency demonstration. Dean was suddenly too hot to stand it. He pulled his coat off and folded it in his lap over his seatbelt, and then fiddled around with the buttons above his head until he figured out how to turn on the air. It was lukewarm and dry.

The plane started backing out of the terminal, and Dean’s hands went tight on the arm rests. No turning back now. Dean picked up one of the brochures in the pocket of the seat in front of him; it listed the steps to take in the event of an emergency water landing. Dean shoved it back into the pocket. His hands and the soles of his feet were damp with sweat – he could feel them squishing around in his socks.

“Are you all right?” Cas murmured quietly. Dean nodded, squeezing the armrests again. Cas watched him for a moment, and then said, “It’s going to be loud on take-off.”

“Okay.”

“The plane’s going to stop, and then suddenly go very quickly. It might sc… err, it might surprise you.”

“Okay.”

The plane crept along the runway like a snail, and then it turned onto a different, longer runway, and Dean gave up and grabbed on to Cas’ hand.

And then the engines started to _roar,_ the sound shockingly loud, _way_ louder than in the movies, and then plane blasted down the runway. Dean’s stomach flip-flopped in his gut as the plane rose.

Cas’ voice was in his ear. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re just going to climb a bit and then it will get better when we level out.”

Somewhere ahead of them, a baby started to wail. Dean felt the same.

Up and up and up, and then the plane banked and the landscape below turned on its side. Dean’s gorge rose, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, horrified, _no no no no no!_ Cas seemed to understand what was happening, and he leaned over Dean and snapped the window shade down. Dean tried looking straight ahead, but he could see the plane tilting on all sides of him, through all the other open shades, the entire world turning on its side. Closing his eyes made it worse.

“Fuck…” Dean got out, let out an awful, loud gag, and clawed for the airsickness bag. He got it open just in time to hurl his entire breakfast out of his guts.

“Oh, _Jesus,”_ the man in the aisle seat groaned, looking away.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m-…” Dean gagged, and vomited again, half-digested bacon and eggs, acidic coffee. “Oh, fuck me…”

It took so long for the plane to finish ascending, so much longer than Dean was prepared for. The squawking baby reached a fever pitch, like someone was torturing it. Then, finally, the Seatbelt light clicked off. Almost on cue, the plane started to bump and rattle like it was shaking apart. Dean hunched over his puke bag, groaning.

“What was… what was that? Was that normal?”

“Yes, Dean. That was normal,” Cas said, his voice low. “It’s just turbulence.”

“Uhhh, God, _fuck…”_ Horribly, Dean felt like he was about to burst into tears, start squalling like that baby up front. His stomach was empty, but he dry-heaved, spat a mouthful of drool into the bag, and then leaned his head against the seat in front of him. He wrapped the full bag up tight, and then grabbed Cas’ out from the pouch in front of him.

A flight attendant appeared in the aisle beside them, wearing rubber gloves and holding a plastic bag. She took the full bag, and dropped into the garbage bag, grimacing.

“You doin’ okay, hon?” she said.

“Just peachy,” Dean said glumly.

“Can we get some water?” Cas said, and the flight attendant nodded.

“Sure. I’ll bring you a bottle. We’ll bring the drink cart through in just a few minutes, too, if you want anything else.”

She left, and reappeared with an airline-branded water bottle. Cas unscrewed it for him, and Dean sipped it, sloshing the water around in his mouth. His teeth felt gritty and his mouth tasted disgusting.

“I’ll get you a soda or something to help settle your stomach,” Cas said.

“Fuck that,” Dean said. He wiped his eyes, which were _watering,_ he was definitely not crying. “Get me a bourbon.”

“I don’t think so.”

Dean sipped a ginger ale while Cas rubbed his back. After an hour, he finally gave into the urge and leaned against Cas’ shoulder, his head pounding, body tense as a wire, still sick as a dog.

***

The plane landed like it was trying to knock his teeth out, hitting the tarmac hard and bouncing him in his seat.

“You’ve gotta be _fucking kidding me…”_ Dean bit out, horrified, because wasn’t that when most planes blew up? On take-off or landing? But then the plane slowed down and rolled into place outside the terminal, and did not explode. Dean sat back in his seat with his eyes shut.

Cas started, “Are you…?”

Dean held up a hand, and Cas quieted. Once they were finally off the plane, Dean found the closest empty seat he could and sank into it.

Dean had fully pitted out both his tee-shirt and his flannel, and his head felt like his brain was vibrating against the inside of his skull.

“Can… Can I get you anything?” Cas said, wringing his hands like a nervous housewife. “A hoagie? Or a burrito?” Dean looked up at him. “I can see if there’s a dessert shop around here? Maybe they sell pie?”

Dean let out a weak laugh, and shook his head. “Nah. I still got lava in my guts.” He got to his feet – his legs felt weak and shaky, and he could feel that he’d sweat through his underwear. Great.

Cas went into a chintzy coffee shop and bought a bottle of water for him (for nine dollars! Nine fucking dollars! Dean was horrified). Dean gulped it as he followed Cas to the baggage claim. While they waited for Cas’ suitcase, Dean turned on his phone.

_From Sam: Good luck! See you soon!_

_From Dean: Just landed. Up for hangin out tonight?_

The suitcases from their flight spilled out onto the moving belt, and Cas darted up to grab his hardbacked roller. He dragged it behind him as Dean followed him numbly through the airport, out into the open air.

The air was hot and dry, but the sky was surprisingly overcast. They had actually left nicer weather behind in Kansas. Cas flagged down a cab, and they drove through the heavy traffic to the hotel.

Dean sucked down the rest of the water and was feeling more or less human again by the time they got into the nice, air-conditioned hotel lobby. Cas hung back while Dean went up to the counter.

“Hey. Checkin’ in,” Dean said, digging his wallet out of his coat pocket. “Winchester?”

“Welcome, Mr. Winchester,” the front desk girl said, typing away on her computer. She took his ID and his credit card. “So… three nights, single King?”

Dean resisted the urge to look back at Cas, his face warming. “That’s the one,” he said.

She nodded, appearing utterly uninterested. “Pool is open until nine, breakfast is six AM to ten. Please let us know if you need anything.”

Dean got the keycards, and mumbled, “Yeah, uh, thanks.”

And then, finally, they were inside the blessed relief of their cool, third-story hotel room.

It was almost like coming home, in a sad way. Dean sank onto the bed, dropped his duffel onto the carpet, and then flopped back on the mattress. The room was a nice, bland, anonymous one with white walls and blue carpet. The bed was decently soft, with four pillows and a blue blanket. There was a desk with a swivel chair, a mid-size TV, a teeny little sofa, and a mini-fridge. The sink and mirror were out in the main room, and the toilet and shower were sectioned off in the tiny bathroom.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Dean moaned. He glanced at his phone – no response from Sam. He tried to call him, and it rang and rang and went to voicemail. Dean ended the call, and dialed Bobby – directly to voicemail.

Cas locked the door and wandered over the curtains. He pushed them open, and let the grey light stream in through the sheers. “Just the one bed?” he said, off-hand.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Um… well. Well, yeah. What? You think I’d get two?”

Cas smiled at him. “I was wondering if you’d…” He shrugged one shoulder.

“If I’d chicken out?”

“Well. That’s not the word I’d use.” Cas pulled off his jacket, and then slid his feet out of his shoes and laid on the bed beside Dean. “Are you feeling better?” he said, and ran his fingers through Dean’s hair.

“Ugh. A little.”

“Will we see Sam tonight?”

“Dunno. Waiting for him to call me back.” Dean let Cas play with his hair for a minute, before he sat up slowly. “Sorry, Cas, I really need a shower.”

“Could probably brush your teeth, too.”

“Shit.” Dean clapped a hand over his mouth. “Really?”

Cas laughed quietly, nodding. “That poor girl at the front desk. I thought she was going to faint.”

“Shut up! Really? Ah, man…” Dean went into the bathroom and showered off, taking his time scrubbing the flight grime away. The hot water was pure relief. He brushed his teeth while he stood in a towel in front of the mirror, and then gargled with the tiny, complimentary mouthwash. Then he crouched by his bag and dug out a pair of Cas’ boxers that he had packed as pajamas, and pulled them on, before climbing under the blankets. Cas was reclined on the bed in his shirtsleeves, his nose already in a book, and Dean scooted close to his hip. The sheets were nice and cool.

“You know,” Cas said. “We can just buy you some pajama shorts. I assure you they exist.”

“Nah. Don’t need ‘em.” Dean pulled the blankets up over his bare shoulders. “I feel like… someone hit me with a hammer.”

“I had no idea your flight anxiety was so bad.” Dean scowled at the term. “We’ll get you some Dramamine for the trip back.” Cas ran his hand up and down Dean’s back. “Just take a nap, okay? We’ll get some dinner tonight if you’re up for it.”

“Can you wake me up? Maybe in an hour or two? I don’t wanna sleep the whole day away.”

“I will.”

***

Dean woke up to the sound of the door snapping shut. He sat up, knuckling sleep out of his eyes.

“Well, good morning,” Cas said. He was walking back into the room with a tray of plates, and Dean could smell some delicious, greasy food.

“Ooh… whatcha got, there?” Dean said.

“I got some room service. I thought we could have a late lunch, early dinner.”

“You’re my hero,” Dean said, and threw the blankets off. Then he sat back in the bed and yanked the blankets back on. “Shit, Cas! That A/C’s cranked!”

“Sorry,” Cas said, and shut off the air conditioner, leaving the fan running. He pulled Dean’s sweatshirt out of his suitcase, and threw it over to him. Dean yanked it over his head. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so cold.” He picked up Dean’s plate and brought it over to the bed. “Here. This is the one and only time you may eat in the bed.”

Dean grinned at him and took the plate. It was a deluxe cheeseburger, dripping grease, strips of bacon and slabs of onion dangling off of it enticingly, surrounded by thick steak fries. “Ah, Cas. You shouldn’t have.” He took a huge bite, savoring it.

His phone chimed, and Dean picked it up with his cleaner hand as Cas sat down at the desk to eat his own sandwich and salad.

_From Sam: I have to work late and Jess is at the hospital til midnight. Can we meet up after the ceremony tomorrow instead?_

And then, another text: _I’m sorry_

Dean frowned, trying not to feel the sharp stab of disappointment.

“What is it?” Cas said.

“Uh… nothin’. Sam won’t be free until tomorrow after the graduation.” Dean sent back a text – _No worries, see you tomorrow._

Cas’ eyes narrowed a little. “I see,” he said carefully.

Dean set his phone on the bedside table. “It ain’t his fault, Cas. They’re both workin’.”

Cas crossed his arms. “You came here from Kansas for all of three days.”

Dean took another bite of his burger so he wouldn’t have to respond. Cas drummed his fingers on the desk, and then he picked up his plate, and walked over to sit beside Dean on the bed.

“All right. Let’s just pretend we’re on our own vacation in the meantime,” he said, clearly trying to be a good sport.

Dean watched him for a moment, and then he smiled. “Good idea,” he said, and then Cas reached out and grabbed a fry off of Dean’s plate. “Hey! You’re gonna lose a hand if you try that again!”

They finished their food, and Cas set the empty plates back on the tray, and then placed the tray outside of the room. He came back into the room, stretching his arms over his head.

“The clouds burned off,” he said, peeking out through the sheers. “Or… the smog?” He started to unbutton his shirt, and Dean watched, interest piqued. “Do you want to go to the pool?”

“Hmmm.” Dean stretched languidly on the bed, and patted his full stomach. “Ain’t you s’posed to wait thirty minutes after eatin’ before you swim?”

“Oh, my God. You are so lazy.” Cas stripped out of his shirt, and bent down to dig through his suitcase for his trunks. “Come on. You can lay around in a deck chair outside.” He stripped out of his pants and underwear, and pulled on the dark blue shorts.

“Ooh. Nice view.”

Cas grinned, shaking his head. “You can do more than _view_ later if you come to the pool with me.” He balled up Dean’s own red and white trunks, and threw them at him. They unfurled and draped over Dean’s chest, still smelling of chlorine from their last use.

Dean sat up. “Aright, aright,” he said. He took off his sweatshirt and Cas’ boxers, and yanked on the trunks and then a white tee-shirt. He stood with his hands out to his sides – _ta-da!_ “Satisfied?”

Cas smiled at him. “Very.”

Dean followed him through the hotel, down to the pool. It was marginally crowded, but they found two reclining lounge chairs next to each other, with a squat little table between them. Dean watched as Cas laid out his blue-striped towel, and started to rub sunscreen on to his shoulders. Dean flopped on to the other chair, and folded his towel behind his head. He was a little too pale to sunbathe without burning, so he kept his shirt on and put sunblock on his arms, then his legs and feet. He watched as Cas rubbed lotion on to his chest, and then he said, “Can you get my back?”

“Huh?”

“Can you get my back?” Cas smiled slyly. “I don’t want to burn.”

Dean hesitated, glancing around surreptitiously. There were a few families with squawking kids, some single people and couples laying in deck chairs, bodies pointed toward the sun, a big group splashing around in the pool.

“Okay,” Dean said, and poured a dollop of sunscreen onto his hand. “Get on over here.”

Cas sat down on the chair beside him, scooting close. Dean ran his hands down Cas’ back, rubbing the sunblock into his skin. He could feel Cas’ strong muscles, the warmth of his skin, his spine and shoulder blades.

Cas hummed pleasantly. “That feels nice,” he said, and Dean felt a petulant thrum of arousal in his groin. He shifted, and cleared his throat – he needed to get this done, all business.

He made sure every inch of Cas’ back was covered, and said, “All done. Ready to cook.”

Cas looked back at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “Thank you, Dean,” he said, and Dean thought that he must have done that on purpose. “That’s better,” Cas said, and stood up to flatten out his deck chair. He laid down on his back and stretched out. Dean’s eyes ran over the strong planes of Cas’ chest, his stomach and legs, and then he forced himself to look away and jammed his headphones over his ears. After a few minutes, Cas rolled over, propped up on his elbows, and opened his book. Dean shut his eyes.

***

Dean jumped at the touch to his leg. He pulled his headphones off. “Yup?” Cas was standing next to his chair, and Dean blinked up at him. “What’s up?”

Cas crossed his arms. “I’m hot.”

Dean took off his sunglasses, and squinted up at him. “Yes.”

Cas grinned. “I’m getting in the water.”

Dean glanced over at the pool. “I’ll supervise.”

Cas walked off to the water, and Dean watched him as he sat down at the edge of the deep end. He stuck his legs into the water, and splashed some up onto his arms and chest before sliding straight in. Dean watched him swim a few lazy laps, very aware of how hot and sweaty he was, and how suddenly inviting the pool looked.

It was getting late in the evening, the sun sinking in the sky. Most people had cleared out – gone to dinner or out for drinks. The squealing children were gone, and only a few stragglers remained, half-conscious in the deck chairs. No one was actually left in the pool except for Cas.

Dean hesitated for another minute, and then he pulled his shirt off. He tried not to think about how many, many kids had pissed in the pool as he walked over to the stairs, and then he climbed in, one step at a time.

“It’s fuckin’ cold!” he said, as Cas swam over.

Cas smoothed his hair back from his face. “It’ll warm up,” he said.

Dean got to his thighs in the water and paused for a moment, mentally preparing himself for the full plunge. He took a deep breath, and then sank down in the water up to his neck.

“ _Shhhiiiitttt,”_ he hissed. The water was like ice over his arms and shoulders.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Cas said, as he floated back toward the deep end. To be fair, once the initial shock passed, it was pretty refreshing. Dean walked in the water until it was up to his chest and he was floating up off of the floor so he could tread, and then he did a slow backstroke over to the wall. The sun felt a lot nicer from down here in the water.

Cas swam over to him, rested his arm the wall beside him.

“Look at you,” he said. “How long have we been out here, two hours? You’re already covered in freckles.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, holding up an arm. It was getting blotchy red and dotted with spots.

“It’s cute.”

“Cute!” Dean said, scowling.

“What?”

“‘Cute’ is how you describe little girls and chihuahuas and shit! This,” Dean said raising a hand and gesturing to his face, “is ruggedly handsome.”

Cas chuckled, and splashed him gently, just a little flick of his hand. “My apologies.”

Dean felt a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to kiss him. He looked away instead, blushing.

“I think I’m gonna head up. You have your key card?”

“Mmh.”

“Gonna run over to the, uh, gas station down the street. Get some beer and stuff. You want anything?”

“Sure. Whatever they have is fine.”

Dean let go of the wall, and sank down into the water until it was over his head. Then he reached over and pinched Cas’ ass.

Cas jerked away from him, and he caught the wave on Cas’ hand as he swam away, staying underwater until he reached the stairs. He risked a glance back, and Cas was staring after him, laughing.

“Ass!” Cas called, and Dean gave him a thumbs up.

Oh. There it was again. That tug in his chest. That, _holy shit I am in love with this man_ feeling.

***

Dean took a second shower to rinse the chlorine (and piss-water) off of himself, and walked the handful of blocks to the gas station. The end-of-day heat was heavy and thick, an open-oven-door type of heat. Dean looked around at the landscape as he walked. Through the buildings, he could see the sloping mountains that surrounded them, so different from his pancake-flat Kansas. He was relieved to step inside the grimy gas station, and out of the sun. 

He nodded to the kid at the desk. “Howdy.” The kid frowned at him.

_Well, pardon me all over the place,_ he thought, and wandered back to the long wall of refrigerators.

Now that the worst part of the trip was done, he felt the full force of his worry about Bobby meeting Cas. He had tried to imagine the meeting in the past, but the images didn’t fit right, no matter the scenario. Bobby Singer and Cas Shurley did not inhabit the same space in his head.

He also couldn’t imagine it ending well.

_This is too much,_ he imagined Bobby saying. _Why would you bring him here?_ Ever-tolerant Bobby, finally meeting his limit. And how would Cas react to that?

Shit. Dean leaned on the refrigerator door, steadying himself. Come on. There was no going back now, he’d gone too far already.

Dean grabbed a rack of skunk beer off of the bottom rack, and then a six pack of some fancy euro-trash for Cas. There was also a tiny display of cheap-cheap wine on the wall, so Dean grabbed a random bottle of red, and then he selected a bag of chips before going up to the register.

And of course, because they were in California, there were no bags other than a tiny paper bag that could fit more than a candy bar. The pimply-faced kid at the register was utterly unsympathetic.

Dean hiked back to the hotel juggling the beers and the wine and the baggie of chips, praying he wouldn’t drop anything. That would just be a cherry on top of everything.

Cas was back in the room and re-dressed by the time Dean shuffled into the room.

“There you are,” he said, rising off of the tiny couch. He took the six pack and the wine out of Dean’s hands. “Ah! Wonderful. Thank you.”

“Hot out there,” he said, laying the rack on the bed, and tossing the chips on to the desk. He shoved as many beers into the mini-fridge as would fit, before cracking one open, then sat on the bed, and took a long swig. _Paradise._

“How much was this?” Cas said, inspecting the wine.

“That bottle?” Dean frowned thinking back. “Uh… nine? Nine-ish?”

Cas stared at him. “I’m sorry. _Nine?_ Not nineteen, not ninety. Nine?”

Dean snorted out a laugh. “You fuckin’ snob. It was a gas station, not a vineyard.”

Cas scowled at him as he ripped the wrapper off of the top. The opening was a twist-off.

“Oh,” Dean said. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Let’s try it together, shall we?” Cas said, striding over to the sink and picking up one of the small, plastic cups next to the ice bin. He opened the bottle, and poured a healthy splash into the cup, before walking back over to the bed. He swirled it around in the cup, studying it closely, and then took a sip. His face was a blank slate as he swallowed.

“So?” Dean said. “What’s the verdict?” Cas didn’t say anything, but he held out the cup to Dean. Dean took it delicately, his insides squirming.

“Go on,” Cas said, crossing his arms.

“Ugh…” Dean took a sip. It tasted like a rotten flower that had been soaked in vinegar, and, before he even realized what he was doing, he spat it back into the cup.

“Dean!” Cas cried, and started to laugh.

“Oh, shit.” Dean grabbed his beer and chugged, swishing it around in his mouth. “Oh, my God. That’s awful.”

“I have seen you drink literal moonshine with a straight face. I cannot believe that you can’t handle a little dry red.” Cas took the cup from him, and Dean heard him pour it out in the sink.

“Yeah! Liquor just tastes like _liquor._ That shit tastes like literal poison.”

“You big baby.” Cas poured himself another cup. “It’s actually not as terrible as I was expecting.”

“Oh, gee. High-praise comin’ from Cas, on his ivory tower of wine-tasting. _Not as terrible as I was expecting.”_ Dean started to laugh. “You should send a review to the paper for that one.”

“Shut up!” Cas said, dropping on to the couch, his face pink.

Cas had opened the curtains, so they had a nice view of the sky going from blue, to orange and red, to deep purple-black. They could barely make out any stars. Cas switched from the wine to his beer, and Dean flipped channels. Nothing to watch.

“Do you want to go anywhere?” Cas said. His laptop was open on the table, but he was ignoring it. “Even to the hotel bar or something?”

“Hmmm.” Dean set his beer on the bedside table. “Nah. Not really. You wanna?”

Cas shrugged. “We could. But it’s kind of nice just… being here with you. With nothing else to do.”

Dean nodded to his laptop. “Ain’t you got a shit ton of grading to do?”

Cas waved a dismissive hand. “It will be there tomorrow.”

“Well.” Dean nodded at the space on the bed beside him. “Get on over here.”

Cas smiled warmly, and walked over to sit next to him on the bed. Dean slung an arm around him, and flipped through the channels idly, until he found a station playing a censored version of _The Exorcist,_ only a few minutes in. Father Merrin was still on his dig in Iraq.

“Ah. How romantic,” Cas groused.

Dean laughed quietly, holding out the remote. “We can find somethin’ else if you want.”

“No, no. This is fine.” Cas leaned against his shoulder, and sipped his beer. His hand reached up to hold on to Dean’s arm, his thumb rubbing back and forth across Dean’s skin.

It occurred to Dean, suddenly, that this was his and Cas’ first trip together. Shit. That was a crime. He resolved that, as soon as Cas’ classes were wrapped up, they’d go somewhere for a real vacation. And Dean would _drive,_ thank-you-very-much. A nice road trip. That was the ticket – the only proper way to travel was down here on the ground.

The movie finished up, and they were watching the credits scroll by when Dean shifted. “Aright. I gotta tell you. I’m… a little nervous. About tomorrow.” There! He said it. It was out there.

Cas sighed. “Me, too,” he said. Cas got up on his knees so he could face Dean. “No matter what happens, I have you, and you have me. Right?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” 

Cas leaned forward and kissed him, firm and with intent. Dean’s hand went up to cup his head, and Cas’ hand dropped to his abdomen.

Dean felt a sharp stab in his bladder, and he sat up quickly, pushing Cas back. “S-Sorry! Gotta pee.” He got off the bed and hustled into the bathroom.

Ah, why the hell had he said that? It was one thing to think it, but it was another to admit it out loud. Cas probably thought he was a big chicken now.

Dean pissed, and went out to scrub his hands.

“Aright,” he said, drying them on the hand towel. “Where were we?”

Cas was lying in the bed, head propped up on his hand. He’d shut the curtains, and stripped out of his clothes, the sheet pulled up just barely over his hips. “Come to bed…” he said, his voice low. It hit Dean right in the groin.

“Uh-huh. Yup.” Dean yanked off his shirt and shoved his jeans and underwear off, then fell into the bed, practically tackled Cas in his eagerness to kiss him. Cas laughed into his mouth, pushing the sheet down. “Ya know… you were so sexy out there in the pool…” Dean murmured. “Did you have me rub you down ‘cuz you knew it’d turn me on?”

Cas grinned. “Perhaps I did have a hidden agenda.”

“You bring anything?” Dean said into his throat. His brain had been so stuck on the plane that he hadn’t even considered anything past it. But Cas held up a slim bottle of lube, and Dean grinned. “Perfect.” He poured some into his hand, and took hold of Cas’ warm cock, already half-hard.

“ _Mmh.”_ Cas laid back against the pillows. Dean worked Cas’ prick, and then started to stroke his own as well, getting himself hard. Dean leaned down, slotting their hips together to grind his cock against Cas’. “ _Mmmh… Dean…”_ Cas groaned, his voice sex-rough and deep. Cas’ fingers found his nipples, and he pinched hard, sending zings of pleasure right to Dean’s dick, making him groan.

“Fuck…” Dean bit out. Cas’ hands went up to sling around his shoulders as they rocked together.

After such a long day, it just felt good, just rubbing off against each other, Cas’ cock thick and hard against Dean’s. He forced himself to slow it down, take his time, thrusting his hips nice and slow, savoring the pleasure. Precum dripped from his cock, splashing on Cas’ stomach to mingle with his own.

“So fuckin’ sexy…” Dean growled, and leaned down to kiss him. Cas held Dean tight against him. “Need you,” Dean breathed. “Need you all the time. Always.”

“You have me,” Cas murmured. He gripped Dean’s ass, urging him on, and kissed him deeply, thrusting his tongue into Dean’s mouth. Dean was close suddenly, the urge to cum insistent and strong in him. He gripped Cas’ cock.

“Gettin’ there?” he rasped. Cas nodded. His face was bright pink, his stomach tight, balls drawing up against him. “Gonna get us off.”

“Yes,” Cas hissed. “Want you.”

“Fuck, Cas…” Dean groaned, thrusting against him hard, working the head of Cas’ cock while he rocked against his shaft with his own prick.

“Ah! _Dean!”_ Cas cried, his body shuddering.

“Gonna cum?”

“Mmh!” Cas arched under him, and Dean worked his erection quickly with his hand. It jumped in his hand, and then Cas came, shooting onto his stomach. “Ahh-h-h, _Dean…”_ he moaned. Dean grabbed his own dick, jerking himself quickly. He leaned down against Cas, resting his head on Cas’ shoulder, breathing him in, and then he came.

“Fu-u-uck, yes…” he groaned, and dropped against Cas on the bed, panting. Cas wrapped his arms around him, kissed his face.

“Cas… love you,” Dean murmured. He didn’t say it near enough.

Cas’ thumb ran over his jaw. “I love you,” he whispered back.

He laid with Cas, comfortable and warm, until he dozed off. And then he woke up to the soft glow of Cas’ laptop in the bed beside him. Cas was sitting up, in sweatpants and a tee-shirt, hunched over the screen and a small stack of papers.

“Are you… grading?” Dean said.

“Mmh.” Cas nodded. “I’m still a little tipsy… it’s the perfect time to read these essays.”

“Jeezus,” Dean laughed, and laid back down.

***

It appeared to be Graduation Weekend for every student in Southern California, and the streets were packed. Their cab moved like a snail through the ocean of cars, and Dean looked at his watch as the minutes ticked by – first to late, then past late, then past embarrassingly late. He bit his lips together to keep from bitching about the slow ride.

It was too hot in the cab, and Dean had sealed himself into his only suit. He was very displeased to discover that it was a little too tight across his stomach and arms, and the jacket barely buttoned. He’d just have to leave it open.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a suit before,” Cas had said in the hotel room, knotting his own tie. Dean shrugged, struggling the tie around his neck. 

“Don’t really have much opportunity to wear one,” he mumbled. “Fuckin’ thing!”

“Here.” Cas slid Dean’s tie out from his collar, draped it around his own neck, and quickly did a half-Windsor like it was second nature. He pulled it up around his head, and slid it over Dean’s. “It just takes practice.” His eyes ran over Dean’s body. “You look… very good.”

Dean blushed, and said, “Whatever.”

Now, in the cab, Dean straightened the tie, and stared out the window. He could feel sweat dripping down his back, behind his knees. This was so stupid – why had he thought a suit was a good idea? He was already dreaming of his end-of-the-night shower. He felt like he was wearing a costume. Should have just put on dumpy jeans and a tee-shirt, or a pair of stained coveralls for how well he’d fit in with the crowd.

The ceremony was well underway when they finally got into the stadium. There was one section of the huge stadium set up for the commencement, and they had to walk up to the higher level to find seats together in the crowd. They had missed all of the speeches (which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, Dean thought, since Sam wasn’t speaking anyway), and the announcer was almost done with the “F” names. The stage had a screen behind it playing a video, a steady camera fixed on the speaker’s podium. The graduates walked up, took their diploma, shook his hand, and walked off screen.

Dean sent a text to Bobby – _Just found seats. Meet you after?_

“We made it,” Cas said, patting Dean’s arm.

“Yep.” Dean nodded. “And we didn’t have to sit through the boring parts,” he added, nudging Cas back. The stadium was open and the sun was beating down directly on top of their heads, so Dean shucked off his jacket and rolled his sleeves up.

Finally able to relax, Dean looked around, taking in the full stadium, the sea of graduates in their black robes down on the field. The “F” names slowly rolled into “G,” into “H,” and Dean was beginning to regret even showing up.

“Maybe we should have woken up a little later,” he mumbled, and Cas snorted.

“No kidding.” He pulled off his own suit jacket. “God, I hate California. It’s so hot.”

“Shhh!” Dean grabbed his arm, snickering. “You’re gonna get us shot!”

“They don’t have guns out here,” Cas whispered.

“They might throw kale at us.”

They both broke out into muffled laughter.

The names continued their steady crawl, sometimes broken by stunted applause. After what felt like hours, they were finally into the “W” section.

“He’s comin’ up!” Dean said.

“He sure is,” Cas said, sounding amused.

“ _Lucille Marie White… Joseph Martin Williams… Amanda Rose Wilson…”_ And then, finally, “ _Samuel William Winchester.”_

Dean leapt out of his seat, his jacket falling to the ground. “ _Yeah! Sammy!”_ he called, clapping. Sam appeared on the screen for a moment, in the long, black gown, a strip of red and blue fabric draped over his shoulders. The law school hat was weird, almost like a beret and not like a regular graduation cap. He took his degree, grinning big, and shook the man’s hand – and then disappeared.

Dean sat back down, elated. He looked at Cas.

“Okay. We can go.”

Cas barked out a laugh. “Let’s stay a few more minutes, hmm? They’re almost done.”

The ceremony finished up quickly, and the stadium started to empty out. Dean looked at his phone, suddenly awash with a fresh wave of nerves.

_From Bobby: Out by the main doors, on the grass._

Dean sent a text to Sam to let him know where they’d be. “C’mon,” he said, and stood up. Cas followed him, threading his arms back into his jacket despite the heat. They walked back out the way they came through the main entrance, around the families and couples hugging and kissing. Once outside, Dean started to look around, squinting in the sun.

His eyes found Bobby almost immediately. He was standing in the shade away from the crowd, in his nicest ballcap and least-stained jeans. He had, like Dean, donned an ill-fitting suit jacket and squeezed into a button-down shirt. Seeing him shocked Dean – the last time he’d seen him had been Sam’s last graduation, in the exact same place.

Dean had to swallow twice before he could speak. “That’s him,” he said to Cas. “Bobby!” he called louder, putting up a hand. Hey!”

Bobby looked over to him, breaking out in a small smile. He waved as Dean and Cas walked over.

“Good to see ya, boy,” Bobby said, pulling Dean in for a hug. Motor oil, old books, Stetson. Dean couldn’t help but smile.

“You, too,” he said, around the sudden lump in his throat. He swallowed again, stepping back. “Bobby. This is Castiel Shurley.”

Cas nodded to him, and held out his hand. “It’s very good to finally meet you, sir,” he said. 

Bobby looked Cas over with a frown, like he didn’t quite know what to make of him. “Nice to meet ya,” he finally said, and shook Cas’ hand firmly. Dean let out the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding, feeling like he’d just introduced his prom date or some shit.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Cas said.

Bobby nodded, and withdrew his hand to reach up to undo his top two buttons, revealing the neck of a grey tee-shirt. “Can’t say I’ve heard much about you.”

Cas raised an eyebrow, and Dean tensed.

“ _Dean! Hey!”_ Sam’s voice behind him, cutting through the noise. Dean turned, and saw Sam, a head above the rest of the crowd, followed by Jess in a white and floral dress, her curly blonde hair loose around her shoulders.

“Sammy!” Dean called, walking toward him. “’Bout fuckin’ time!” Sam walked up to him, grinning big. He batted at the tie around Dean’s neck, shaking his head.

“What is this tie bullshit?” Sam said, shaking his head.

“No kiddin’,” Dean said, loosing the thing from around his neck. “Feel like I’m goin’ to my first dance in seventh grade.”

“You big jerk. Where you been?” Sam started to laugh, and then he wrapped him up in a hug. Dean squeezed him back. “Thanks for comin’,” Sam said, patting him on the back.

“You couldn’t keep me away if you tried. Bitch,” Dean said, stepping back. He looked at Jess. “Jess!” he said.

“Dean,” she said, with a slightly sour smile, and then gave him an indulgent kiss on the cheek. Jess had never really known what to make of Dean, he could tell. He was just Sam’s trashy brother to her, rolling in to town once in a blue moon, and then rolling out. Sam no doubt regaled her with tales of his messy life, which probably didn’t help.

“Good to see you again,” he said.

“Thanks for coming.” 

Dean looked back at Cas, who was standing beside Bobby, looking bristly and uncomfortable. “Sam, this is-…”

“You’re Cas!” Sam said.

Cas straightened up. “Yes.” He held out his hand. “Hello, Sam.”

“It’s so great to finally meet you!” Sam said. He ignored the proffered hand, and yanked Cas into a hug. “I’ve heard so much about you, I feel like I know you already.”

“Oh! Well… yes. Likewise.” Not much of a stranger-hugger, Cas patted him on the back, looking like he felt a little awkward. 

Thank God for Sam. It was a little white lie – Dean realized that he had hardly told Sam anything about Cas, just that he existed, he was a teacher, and they were together. He’d told Bobby about the same. God, he was an asshole.

“All right, all right,” Bobby said. “Everyone get close, now.” He held up his camera, an actual film camera that must have been about twenty years old. Dean slung an arm around Cas’ neck before he could protest, felt Sam grab him around the shoulders. Jess squawked out a laugh as Sam hugged her close, and the camera flashed.

***

They went to dinner at some schmaltzy restaurant in downtown Palo Alto. The place was packed, but Sam had made a reservation, and they were sat quickly out on the patio. Dean gave in to the urge and ditched the tie, shoving it into the pocket of his jacket.

Dean scanned the small menu, his eyebrows coming together. The prices made him sweat, but he bit back the urge to complain. There was no way he was going to be an asshole tonight. No way.

“So, Cas,” Sam said over his menu. “Dean said you’re a professor? Is that right?”

“I teach at Eisenhower Community College. And I…” Cas glanced at Dean. “I’ve actually accepted an adjunct position at Eastern Kansas College starting this fall.”

Dean felt color creep up into his face. He hadn’t known that. Why hadn’t he known that?

“That’s great!” Sam said.

“It’s just for one class,” Cas said. “But it certainly opens some doors.”

“What do you teach?” Jess said, and bit into a piece of bread.

“English Literature and Language,” Cas said. “I’ll be teaching a Medieval Literature class at EKC.”

“English?” Bobby barked. “You already speak it! What’s to teach?”

Sam gave him a withering stare, and looked back at Cas. “Ignore him. They don’t have higher ed in South Dakota.”

Bobby scoffed. The waiter came for their orders. Bobby ordered a cheap cut of steak, Sam ordered some kind of pasta that Dean had never heard of, Jess ordered a salad, Cas ordered some kind of chicken dish, and Dean picked the cheapest thing on the menu – a BLT and fries.

Sam and Cas talked about their respective schools and programs, which rolled into talking politics, which Jess eagerly joined in on. Half of it was over Dean’s head – he understood about every other point they were making – and he sat there, feeling dumb as a rock, nodding along.

Bobby seemed similarly out of the loop. “Let’s get a drink, Dean,” he said. “We’ll leave these philosophers alone for a minute.”

“Oh, Bobby,” Jess laughed, waving a hand at him.

Dean met Cas’ eyes, and gave him a minute shake of his head, then turned to follow Bobby through the crowded restaurant, up to the bar.

“Two whiskey rocks,” Bobby ordered, setting their empty glasses on the counter. As they waited, Bobby turned to him. “We’ve been talking to Sam all night, ‘ve barely got to talk to you. How are you doin’, Dean?”

“I’m… great,” Dean said, and he truly meant it. “I… they made me full time at the garage. I quit my bartending job. It’s been… It’s been real nice, having nights off. Just… havin’ free time.”

“I’ll bet!” Bobby said, and slapped Dean on the arm. “That’s terrific.”

“How’re you doin’? How’s the salvage?”

Bobby shrugged. “Truckin’ right along. Can’t complain.”

“Is Rufus doin’ all right? How’s his foot?”

“He’s fine. Big ol’ wimp. He’s healed up and off his crutches. Just saw him the other day, actually. Sat on the porch and had a drink with him. Weather’s been great, ain’t been too hot at all.”

“That’s good. Ellen and Jo doin’ okay?”

Bobby snorted. “Ellen’s still at the Roadhouse. Jo took off – had another fight.”

“Shocker.”

“Mm-hmm. Jo’s workin’ at a bar up in Duluth, now.”

Dean grunted. “For now.”

“Mm-hmm. For now. Girl always comes home when she cools down.” Bobby blew out a short breath. “So,” he said. “Cas.”

Dean nodded, feeling his entire body alight with pins and needles. He stopped himself from barking his questions out like a nervous dog. _What do you think of him? Do you like him? Is he all right? Are you all right with him?_ He could feel his own desperation coming off of him in waves.

“He seems like a… err… a nice fella,” Bobby said. The bartender brought them their drinks, and he picked his up and took a sip. “Smart.”

“Uh. Yuh. Yep.” Dean nodded.

“How old’s he?”

“Uh…” Dean frowned. “Thirty… four? Thirty-five? Thirty-five in July.”

Bobby nodded, swirling the ice around in his glass. “Not what I expected.”

Dean felt his eyebrows come together. “Really?”

Bobby shrugged, leaning back against the bar. “Doesn’t look like he belongs to Hell’s Angels, anyway.”

Dean coughed out a laugh. “Cas?” he said, and Bobby grinned at him. “Nah. No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

“Good. He seems like a decent man.”

Dean straightened up. “He is.”

“I just, uh…” Bobby sighed, and sipped his drink again, his eyes off in the crowd. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand why you would want… that. Why you wouldn’t want to find a nice girl to settle down with.”

Dean felt something fray inside him, but rather than resist it, he resigned himself to it. “I know, Bobby. I know you don’t get it. But…” Dean looked back toward their table. He could just make out the top of Sam’s head through the crowded patio, but he knew that Cas was sitting beside him. “There’s never gonna be a nice girl for me. Okay?” His face was hot, overwhelmingly so. “Cas… Cas is it for me.” He felt strength behind his words. “I love him a lot, and I.” Dean shrugged. “I want him to be it. Ya know? And… even if Cas weren’t it for me, the next won’t be a girl. I just… I need you to be okay with that. Even if you don’t like it. I just… I need _you_ to be okay with it.” 

“Hmmph.” Bobby waved a hand. “Aright, Dean. Okay. I hear ya.”

Dean felt awkward, stilted. He hated feeling like that around Bobby. Dean could count the number of people he was comfortable talking with, comfortable relaxing around, on one hand, and Bobby was one of them. He didn’t want it to be strange between them, that was the last thing in the world he wanted.

“Have you, uh…” He cleared his throat, and sipped his drink. “I don’t s’pose you know if someone told Dad about Sam’s graduation?”

Bobby nodded slowly. The subject of John Winchester was always a touchy subject. “I did. He told me that if Sam wanted him there, he could call ‘im himself.”

Dean took a slow breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. “Okay.”

“When was the last time you heard from him?”

Dean shook his head. “Been awhile. I leave him voicemails, he calls when he’s drunk, I tell ‘im not to call when he’s drunk, he complains about never hearin’ from Sam. The end.” Dean leaned against the bar. “Maybe last month some time? He said he was livin’ with an ex of his… uh… Kate something. I guess he saw her off and on after we started livin’ with you.”

“Ain’t she got a kid?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s stomach tightened at the thought, of Dad around another kid. His dad as someone’s step-father. Maybe he’d do it right this time. Maybe not.

Bobby patted him on the shoulder. “Guess we’d better get back. Don’t wanna be rude.”

“Uh-huh.”

Bobby squeezed his shoulder, then released him, and Dean followed him back to their table.

“I just don’t understand how you can afford to live out here. The rent! It’s preposterous,” Cas was saying as Dean sat beside him. He felt Cas’ hand move to his knee, give him a gentle squeeze. “Let alone afford a house, I mean, really. It’s shameful, how expensive living is in this state.”

“Tell me about,” Sam said, shaking his head. “I dunno how we’ll ever afford a house. We’ll rent until we have to retire, I guess.”

“And then we can rent a room in Senior Living,” Jess said, and they both laughed.

A _house?_ Sam wanted a _house?_ Dean sipped his drink again. Dean didn’t think owning a home had ever crossed his mind. It didn’t surprise him, though that it was something Sam wanted.

Their food arrived, stalling the conversation a bit. Dean watched Bobby order another drink, feeling a little pit in his stomach. Cas, Sam, and Jess circled their conversation around from rent, back to politics. Dean munched on his fries.

A while later, the plates were cleared, everyone was finishing their drinks. The waiter walked up to them, and Dean was already tabulating how to fight for his portion of the bill.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Shurley,” the waiter said, and passed Cas a leather booklet with his credit card sticking out.

“Oh, Cas, no!” Sam said.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jess said.

“It’s too late. It’s done. You can yell at me for it later.” Cas scrawled his signature out on the receipt, looking pointedly at Dean. Then he smiled at Sam, and said, “Congratulations on your commencement, Sam.”

“Thanks, man,” Sam said, and gave Cas a one-armed hug across the table.

“Aright,” Bobby said, and got shakily to his feet. “Thanks very much, Cas. But I’d best get on back to my hotel, now.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam said. “We’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“You sure will.”

“Can we getcha a cab?” Dean said.

“No, no,” Bobby said brusquely. “I’ll flag one outside. I’ll see y’all tomorrow.” He walked around the table, patting Dean on the shoulder as he passed him. Dean watched him go. 

“Another round?” Dean said. “I’ll buy this time.”

“We’re actually supposed to…” Jess looked at Sam. Sam shook his head a little. “We’re supposed to meet up with some friends tonight.”

“But,” Sam said. “We can be late.”

“Or, you guys could come with us?” Jess said.

“Uh… that’s okay,” Dean said, glancing at Cas. “You two go have some fun, and we can catch up with you tomorrow.”

They left the table, and walked back out to the street. Dean was hoping they would catch Bobby, but it seemed he’d already grabbed a cab.

“Thanks again, Cas,” Sam said, pulling Cas into another hug.

“You’re welcome,” Cas said placidly.

Sam moved on to Dean, and gave him a big hug as well. Quietly, in his ear, he mumbled, “Sorry about this.” Louder, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, smiling. “Just have a good night. Okay? It’s not every day a guy graduates from law school.”

“Thanks, man,” Sam said. He and Jess walked off down the sidewalk, and Dean and Cas walked the other way to the hotel.

***

“I hope you know I’m givin’ you money for half of that dinner,” Dean said, as they walked into the hotel room.

Cas rolled his eyes, and made a non-committal grunt. He stripped off his jacket and tie, and draped them over the desk chair. Dean kicked off his shoes, and sprawled back on the bed. He’d had enough to drink that he was good and tipsy. “Cas?” he said, and Cas looked over at him blearily. He’d had about the same amount to drink and was one step toward drunk. “Why… why didn’t you tell me about the job?”

“Oh… _shit…”_ Cas said, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Dean. I’m so sorry.” He sat on the bed next to Dean. “I kept meaning to tell you, but we’ve been so busy…and you had just gotten your promotion, and… I suppose I just wanted to let you have your moment.” He looked at Dean and gave him a weak smile. “I honestly forgot I hadn’t told you until Sam asked me about work.”

Dean felt a rush of affection (and relief). He leaned over to give Cas a soft kiss. “You didn’t have to do that. You big dork.”

Cas shrugged, smirking. “You really will have to call me Professor Shurley now,” he said.

“Ooh, yes,” Dean said. “ _Professor._ Just tell me what I gotta do to get that A.” Cas snorted with laughter, shaking his head. “You and Sam got on pretty well, I thought?” he said.

“Oh, yes,” Cas said. “Very much so.”

“I’m, uh. I’m sorry they ditched us. You didn’t seem too happy about it.”

Cas hummed. “It’s all right. I’d have gone out with them if you wanted.”

A night out with a bunch of pretentious law students, fresh off the graduation line? Didn’t exactly sound like Dean’s ideal night out. And going out with them would have felt like… intruding.

“He’s very… opinionated,” Cas continued. “But that’s a good thing, I think. He’ll be a good lawyer. And, he and Jess complement each other well. I hope we get to spend more time with him in the future.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Did you and Bobby talk at all?” Cas said.

Dean pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on his arms. “Yeah. A little bit.”

“I… didn’t get the sense that he liked me very much,” Cas murmured.

Dean’s mouth twisted. “It’s not you, Cas. I mean… it’s not _personal._ He just wants me to…” He shook his head. “Be normal, I guess? Find a wife, settle down. I told him that ain’t ever gonna happen, that you were it for me, and he needed to be okay with it. But, I dunno. He’s never… been super happy about it.”

“About you being gay?”

Dean’s stomach tightened at the word. It made him scowl. Quietly, he said, “Yeah.” He scratched his cheek, his fingernails scraping in his stubble. “I just… I owe him so much. Ya know? I wish I could do right by him.”

“Dean,” Cas said. “Things are really happening for you. You’ve taken great strides in your career, you have a degree, you have your own apartment, an amazing car, you’re _happy_ … what more could anyone ask for in someone they raised?”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno,” he mumbled.

Cas paused. “You are happy. Aren’t you?”

Dean smiled at him. “Yeah, Cas. Of course.”

Cas wrapped his arms around him, leaned against him. “I know how worried you were about this trip. Thank you for bringing me here. For introducing me to your family. It means so much to me.”

Dean leaned his head on Cas’ shoulder. “I’m real glad you’re here,” he said, and sighed. “Bobby’ll come around. He was glad you were… ya know. A nice guy. He even called you _decent._ I think he… well.”

“What?”

“Well, I think he was worried you’d be some kinda… I dunno. Some rough, old, biker-type.” Dean’s face warmed, and he wanted to direct the conversation anywhere but there (skirting dangerously close to Benny territory).

Cas grinned at him, and said, “I think my brother still has a motorcycle. I could always borrow it.”

Dean snickered, and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Mmmh. I bet you’d look good in leather.” Cas leaned over to kiss him, and Dean’ hand drifted to Cas’ belt buckle. Cas smiled against his lips. “Wanna fool around?” Dean said.

“Yes,” Cas said. “Of course.” He took Dean by the arm, and pulled him down to the cool sheets.

***

They slept late the next day, and ate lunch at the hotel restaurant. Dean called Bobby to invite him, but Bobby declined, saying he’d already eaten. Dean wasn’t sure how to take it; he just told Bobby okay, that he’d see him at Sam’s in a bit.

Dean’s cell phone rang while they were finishing up.

_Sam calling…_

“Well, good morning!” Dean answered, grinning at Cas over the table.

“ _We just woke up…”_ Sam croaked. _“Stayed out a little bit too late.”_

“Oh, yeah?” Dean chuckled. “How was it?”

“ _Uh… Jess is throwing up.”_

Dean laughed, and said, “They got sick,” to Cas, who rolled his eyes. “We gonna see ya today, Samantha?”

Sam snorted. “ _Ye-e-es. Give us, like… half an hour.”_

“Aright. See ya soon.”

Sam’s response was a quiet groan before he dialed off.

***

Sam answered the door in jeans and a tee-shirt, his hair still messy and wet.

“Hey. C’mon in,” he said, and stepped back from the door.

Dean had visited Sam and Jess’ current apartment only a few times before. It was a nice little space in an old building; a cramped, but well-furnished, one-bedroom. Two loveseats and an armchair surrounded a coffee table beside a tiny TV. The scuffed hardwood floors were covered with rugs, and the ceiling had exposed beams. Bobby was already there, sat primly in the armchair.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean said, plopping into one of the loveseats. Cas sat beside him.

Sam went into the kitchen, and out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam pour a shot of something and toss it back, then brace his hand on the counter.

Jess looked at Dean in surprise, then back at Sam. “Little bit of the hair of the dog, Sam?” she said, with a slightly concerned laugh.

“Sorry,” Sam groaned. “I feel like road kill.” He leaned into the living room. “Anyone else? We have beer and stuff too, if you don’t want to slam straight rubbing alcohol. Or, uh, ya know. Non-alcoholic drinks.”

Dean glanced at Cas, who nodded. “We’ll have a beer,” he said.

“Bobby?”

“No, thanks,” Bobby said. “’Fraid I over-indulged a bit myself last night.”

Sam passed out the drinks, and Jess turned on some music. They sat together in the other loveseat, curled up close to each other, Sam’s arm going easily around her shoulders. It made Dean mindful of the modest distance Cas had set between them when he sat down. Force of habit, of course – they always had a slight distance between them when they went out, ever since that stupid fight they had when they first started dating.

“Are you working tomorrow, Sam?” Cas said.

Sam nodded. “Of course. I’m just doing legal assistant work right now, until I pass the Bar.”

“Have you signed up for it yet?”

Sam nodded, running a hand through his damp hair. “Four months.”

“You’ll pass it,” Jess said. Sam shook his head, grimacing.

“It’s all right if you don’t,” Cas said. “My brother failed his first attempt, and he’s very successful now. Actually…” He let out a quiet laugh. “Our friend Raphael is a lawyer, and he failed his Bar twice.”

Dean bit back a grin. _Asshole._

“You’ll pass,” Bobby said.

“What’s your brother practice?” Sam said.

“Corporate. He’s a partner in a firm on retainer for a company in Chicago.”

“Sam wants to go into environmental law,” Jess said. “Or immigration.”

“Good,” Cas said. Sam grinned at him.

They sat and talked throughout the afternoon, until the sun was getting low in the sky. They drank a few rounds while Bobby sat sober in the arm chair.

“Can I have the bottle opener?” Cas said, when Sam brought him another beer.

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s a twist-off.”

“It hurts my hand!” Cas said.

“Aw, poor thing,” Dean said. “Need me to open it for you?”

“I can handle it, thank you,” Cas said. He pulled his sleeve down over his hand, and twisted the cap off of the beer.

“Too harsh for those soft hands.”

Cas snorted. “Yes, my hands are very soft.”

“Like a fourteen-year-old girl’s,” Dean said, and sipped his beer.

“Do you know many fourteen-year-old girls?”

Dean choked on his beer, and started to laugh. “No!” he said, and leaned close to kiss Cas on the corner of his mouth. Cas smiled, his face flushing pleasantly.

“Aren’t you sweet.”

“I can fake it sometimes,” he said, and then realized, abruptly, that the room had gone quiet. He glanced around – Bobby was staring pointedly at the wall, looking uncomfortable, and Sam and Jess were both clearly trying not to laugh. He felt Cas scoot an inch or two away from him, but Dean draped an arm around his shoulders, feeling suddenly emboldened. “Aright, Aright! Show’s over.”

“You two are so cute,” Jess said.

“He’s domesticated you, Dean!” Sam laughed. “What happened?”

“Impossible,” Dean said. “I’m a wild man. I’m like a wolf.” Cas started to laugh so hard that Dean thought he was going to choke. “Asshole, don’t encourage them!”

Bobby got to his feet suddenly. “I, uh,” he said, and straightened his shirt. “I think I’d best be gettin’ back to my hotel.”

“No, Bobby! Please stay,” Sam said, getting to his feet.

“We’ve hardly seen you at all,” Jess said.

“No, no.” Bobby waved a hand. “You grubs don’t want some grizzled old fart hangin’ around when you’re tryin’ to have fun. ‘sides, I got an early flight tomorrow. Need to pack my stuff up.”

It was an excuse, a real lame duck one, but Sam took it gracefully. They exchanged hugs, and Cas stood up to shake Bobby’s hand again.

Dean got to his feet, and said, “I’ll walk you out.”

He was briefly terrified that Bobby would refuse, but Bobby just looked at him, and nodded. Dean glanced back at Cas briefly; Cas was watching him with clear concern on his face.

Dean followed Bobby out the apartment door, down the stairs to the street. “You don’t gotta leave,” Dean said.

“Nah. I need to.” He gave Dean a small smirk. “Not as young as I used to be. Travelling takes it out of me these days.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean waited a moment, and then said, “Is it ‘cuz of me and Cas?”

“Boy…” Bobby started. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment. “It’s not… I…” He blew out a breath. “I just… need some time. With this.”

“Bobby…” Dean started, but Bobby shook his head.

“It’s all right, boy. I ain’t mad. Okay? It ain’t like that.” Bobby huffed out a sigh, and put his hands on his hips. “Just not… what I’d hoped for you, is all. Not something I’m particularly accustomed to seein’, if you get me.”

Dean wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry. With all the guys Dean ripped through in the time he lived with Bobby, Dean doubted it.

Dean watched him for a moment. “I understand,” he said. “I just… I hope y…” He swallowed. “I… I’m happy, Bobby. I wasn’t happy. For a long time. For years. Didn’t know what I wanted, didn’t know what to do with myself. I… It didn’t feel like livin’ at all, honestly. Just felt like I was _existing._ Ya know? And… Cas makes me happy. He… He makes me feel like I have a home. I ain’t felt like that since I left your house. That’s all,” he said, and looked uncomfortably away.

Bobby took off his hat and ran a hand back through his thinning hair, then pulled Dean into a tight hug. “I’ll call ya. Okay? Soon.”

Dean returned the hug, very worried that it might be his last. “Okay.”

Bobby turned away from him, his face unreadable, and walked off down the street.

Dean watched him for a minute, and then stood and faced the door, taking steady breaths to collect himself. He went back into the building, jogged up the stairs to burn his nervous energy off, and walked back into the apartment.

“Hey,” Sam said from the couch. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, a little too quickly, a little too loud. “Yeah. It’s fine. He’s just tired.”

“Sure,” Jess said, clearly not buying it. Cas watched Dean from the other loveseat. Dean plastered a big grin on his face, dropped onto the loveseat, and then sprawled back to lay half on top of him.

“Ah… that’s better,” he said, and propped his legs up on the couch.

“Jesus! You hog,” Cas said, wrapping an arm around his chest, clearly delighted.

“Oh… waiter?” Dean said, picking up his empty beer bottle. “Dyin’ of thirst over here.”

Sam grabbed his empty bottle, and went into the kitchen, laughing.

“You guys wanna go out or something?” Jess said. “There are some fun bars around here.”

Dean glanced up at Cas, and then he shrugged. “Whatever. We can hang out here.”

“Oh, thank God,” Sam said from the kitchen.

“That’s cool. If we’re staying in…” Jess leaned forward on the seat until she caught Sam’s eye. “Pizza?” she said slowly.

“Oh, yeah!” Sam said. “You guys want pizza? There’s this really good place close by that delivers.”

“Sounds good,” Dean said. He didn’t care what they ate. The only thing he cared about was Sam, in close proximity. Cas, his heartbeat against his back, Cas’ arm around his chest, Cas’ thumb going back and forth against the fabric of his shirt.

***

Dean awoke the next morning to the sound of his cell phone going off. He was spooning Cas from behind, his arm draped over Cas’ torso, plastered to him with sweat.

He rolled over, and grabbed his phone.

_Sam calling…_

“Hey,” he rasped, and then cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said again.

Sam laughed on the other end. _“Hey, yourself. Sorry, I know it’s early. What time’s your flight?”_

“Mmh.” Dean blinked the rest of the way awake, and looked blearily at his watch. Not quite 6:30. “Uh… Like, 12:20, or somethin’ weird like that.”

“ _You got time to meet for coffee? I was hopin’ just you and I could talk. I mean, Cas is welcome too, but…”_

“Sure, Sammy. You and me,” Dean said. “Don’t worry. The little angel won’t be awake until the very last minute. Where we meetin’?”

“ _I’ll text you the address? It’s close to your hotel.”_

“Okay.”

“ _Meet you there in twenty minutes?”_

“Sounds good.” Dean ended the call, and laid back down next to Cas. “Morning, sunshine,” he said into Cas’ ear.

Cas grunted. Three days of heavy drinking had done them both in – they’d tumbled into bed and fallen straight asleep last night, an oddity for Cas, who usually struggled to sleep anywhere but his own bed.

“I’m gonna meet Sam for coffee. You wanna come, or you wanna sleep a little more?”

Cas rolled on to his back, keeping his eyes shut. He mumbled something unintelligible.

“What’s that?”

Cas opened his eyes, looked blearily at Dean. “I’ll stay. It’ll give me more time to pack.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean knew that Cas would be rolled over and asleep before he shut the door behind him.

“Have a nice talk with your brother.” Cas squeezed his arm, and closed his eyes again.

His phone chimed – a text from Sam with the coffee shop name. Dean dressed quickly, and walked the six blocks to the café. He slid into a table outside to wait for Sam.

He didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, Sam appeared at his table, dressed in gym clothes, with two coffees in to-go cups and a little baggie of donuts.

“Ah, Sammy, you didn’t have to do that,” Dean said.

“I wanted to,” Sam said. He set the coffees and the donuts down, and slid into the other chair. “Shit. I’m beat. The last few weeks have been like hell. And… well. The last few days… one long hangover.” He shook his head.

Dean took his coffee, and popped the lid off the top of the cardboard cup.

“You still take it black, right?” Sam said.

Dean nodded. “Sure do.” He blew on the coffee, took a careful sip – still lava-hot.

“Thanks for comin’,” Sam said. “I know you’re probably freaked about your flight.”

Dean shrugged. “It is what it is. Cas is insistent on torturing me by making me fly. ‘Sides, I wanted to see you. I wanted to… talk to you. Just you and me.”

Sam smiled. “Me, too.” He sat back in his chair, and yawned. “Try not to worry too much about Bobby. He’ll come around.”

Dean shrugged, still feeling stung. He wasn’t so sure.

“He _will._ He’s just being like he said – a grizzled, old fart. He’ll get over it. You’re his favorite person in the world.”

“Shut up,” Dean said, and took a bite of his donut. “If anyone’s his favorite, it’s you.”

“Ha!” Sam scoffed. “Please. He tolerates me. He _loves_ you.”

“Whatever.” Dean took another bite of his donut. “If he loves anyone, it’s Rufus.”

Rufus, their nearest neighbor when they were growing up, had been reclusive and strange. He had something wrong upstairs – a few screws loose. He was a war vet, and he drank too much. He was also Bobby’s closest friend.

“They should really move in together and make it official,” Sam said. 

Dean groaned. “That’d be just what we need. The two of them, livin’ together. Conspiracy theories and weapons stockpiling. It’d be another Waco.” They both snickered. “Did you, uh…” Dean bit his lip.

“What?”

Dean played with the lid from his coffee. “Have you heard from Dad?”

Sam stared at him. “No,” he said, firmly, in a tone that said, _Don’t start._

“Aright!” Dean said quickly, holding up a hand. “Aright, just askin’. Don’t bite my head off.”

Sam looked out at the street. After a moment, he sighed. “Bobby told Dad. About the commencement.” Sam looked back at him. “If he’d have called, I would have answered. But he didn’t call. So.”

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face. “Are you goddamn kiddin’ me?”

Sam shook his head, and shoved his hands in his sweatshirt pocket. “He lives in his own world, Dean. Somewhere none of his problems are his fault, and you and I ruined his life or something, or, or how he gave us _everything_ he could, and we should just be grateful for it, we should just kiss his ring.” He shook his head. “Bullshit.”

“He’s got problems, Sam, I don’t disagree. I wish you’d talk to him once in a while. He-…”

“How can you even ask me to do that, after the shit he’s done?” Sam said. "How could you even stand to talk to him?" he continued, and Dean could feel it, Sam’s white-hot rage pouring down like coal from a chute.

“ _Wait._ Wait.” Dean held his hand up again. “Stop. Please. I don’t wanna fight about Dad.”

Sam, for once, eased back and withdrew. “Me either.” He picked up his coffee, and took a sip. “You know… you really impressed me this weekend.”

Dean stared at him. “I impressed you? What?”

“I just… I think it took a lot of balls to bring Cas out here. Fuck, if I were you, I’d’a been pissin’ myself.”

Dean snorted. “Who says I wasn’t?”

Sam chuckled. “He’s really cool. Cas, I mean. Smart. You guys are doin’ well?”

“Yeah. Oh, yeah.” Dean sat back in his chair. “We’ve each got, ya know, stuff that digs at each other, but we’re good.”

“Like what?”

Dean took a slow breath. “Money.”

Sam frowned. “Not enough?”

Dean gave him a weak smile. “Too much.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Impossible.”

“His family, man. They’re fuckin’ loaded. His mom’s Old South money. And his dad’s fuckin’ Carver Edlund.”

Sam frowned, and then his mouth opened in surprise. “Oh… I know that name. That guy! He wrote, like, a bunch of books, right?”

“Yeah.” Dean dropped his head back against the uncomfortable chair. “They’ve got _money,_ dude. And they’re fuckin’ dicks. They don’t even know that he’s gay, let alone with me.”

“What?” Sam said, his face twisting, looking suddenly furious. “He hasn’t told his family about you?”

Dean frowned. “Well… no.”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Sam said. “So, what? You’re just his, like, secret lover or something?” 

Dean shook his head, biting back a smile. “I don’t care, Sammy. He sees his family once a year. Twice a year, maybe. I don’t think he really likes ‘em much. I mean, he loves ‘em, I’m sure. But he doesn’t like bein’ around ‘em. Except his niece and nephew – he misses them all the time.”

Sam shook his head, and crossed his arms. “I’d care,” he said.

“What?”

“I’d care. If my partner wouldn’t tell my family about me. I wouldn’t accept it. Not for a second.”

Dean felt himself smile. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad to hear it.” He kicked Sam gently under the table. “C’mon. Don’t think less of him, now. It’s complicated with his family. You don’t know the details ‘cuz you don’t know him.”

Sam’s scowl shrank a little. “Well, what’s the problem with the money? He try to buy you a nice present or something?”

Dean scratched his head. “It’s just… weird. It hardly means anything to him. He’s got a fuckin’ _trust fund,_ man,” Dean said. “I didn’t even think that was a real thing, ya know? I thought it was just somethin’ they had in movies. He’s just…” It sounded so stupid when he said it out loud. “He’s got a real nice house, nice things, expensive clothes and I just… kinda feel like white trash next to him sometimes. And his _friends, fuck._ They hate my fuckin’ guts.”

“What?” Sam said, horrified, angry again.

“No. No. That was kinda dramatic. I don’t think they hate me. They just… don’t take me seriously at all. They’re all rich, super-educated, they’re all lawyers and doctors and shit, and I’m just…” He shrugged. “I think they just think we’re together because… well.” He gestured at his face. “I just hate that. People thinkin’ that I’m… ya know.”

Something in him had unzipped. He hadn’t realized some of this stuff was bothering him until he was here, with Sam, untethered, with no reason to hold back or sanitize anything. He surprised himself with all of the stuff that came out of him.

“Shit, man. I’m sorry,” Sam said. He sipped his coffee. “I don’t s’pose you talked to Cas about any of this?”

Dean sighed. “No. ‘Course not. Not really. We’ve had some arguments about money, mostly just me gettin’ pissy when he tries to pay for stuff.”

To his surprise, Sam grinned. “I get it, ya know? It’s hard sometimes.” He shook his head. “Sometimes it’s a real pain in the ass. Comin’ from nothing. Especially out here – the people I went to school with went to private prep schools, their families have, like, yachts and summer homes, they spent Christmas is Aspen… and I waited tables on my vacations.” He rested a hand on his chin. “Sometimes I wanna be the… well. The man. Ya know? With Jess. I wanna take care of her right. But she’s NorCal, through and through. Her parents are total nouveu riche. I mean, they’re not billionaires, but…” He shrugged. “She’s never had to worry about where her next meal was comin’ from,” he said, plainly. “It’s just hard, when you feel like you don’t measure up.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.”

“But… you’re allowed to enjoy it. You’re allowed to have a little fun with other people’s money, if they’re throwin’ it around anyway,” he said. “We used her parents’ boat last summer. We had a great time.”

Dean stared at his coffee. “It’s just… if I’m not doin’ it alone, it just doesn’t feel right,” he mumbled. “I. Uh. I just don’t ever want him to think that I’m… that I’m just in it for his money.” He shook his head and sipped his coffee.

“You’re not supposed to be alone when you have a partner,” Sam said. “It’s supposed to be the two of you against everything else. Ya know? The two of you against the problem. Not you on your own, and them on their own. You really oughta talk to him about this stuff, ‘cuz I know you haven’t.”

Dean snorted. “When did you become a marriage counsellor?”

Sam leaned forward, his eyes wide. “Are you gonna marry him?” he said.

“What?” Dean squawked. “No! I… I don’t know! I can’t think about that right now. He made a totally off-hand comment the other day about the two of us moving in together and I almost shit myself.”

Sam burst out laughing. “Oh, my God, you are so _textbook_.”

Dean shook his head. Sam didn’t get it. People died. People left. People didn’t answer the phone. How could Dean possibly lean on Cas so much? He didn’t think he could go back to being alone if he got used to being together.

“What if he asks you? For real?” Sam said. “You gonna say yes?”

Dean swallowed, and considered it carefully. “Yeah. If he asked me. I’d want to.” And then Dean dug into his pocket. “Here. Before I forget. I got you somethin’. A Congrats Grad present.” He handed Sam the check across the table, and Sam unfolded it with a frown. Dean had written the $500 check the night before, folded it up and stuck it in his pocket without telling Cas.

“Jesus, Dean! Speakin’ of money,” Sam said. He looked at him. “I don’t need this.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, ya do.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Okay. I do. But don’t you need it, too?”

Dean shrugged. “I’m doin’ fine, Sammy. Really. Plus… I’m dating a trust-fund baby. Remember?”

Sam shook his head, and looked back at the check. “Yeah, better hold on to that one.” He folded the check, and set it securely in his wallet. “Thank you. Really.”

They finished their coffee, and stood to leave. Sam had to go to work, and Dean needed to go rouse Cas so they could get to the airport.

“I am really glad you came out here, you know? Ya big jerk,” Sam said as he hugged him good-bye. “You gotta come out more often, man. I forgot how much I missed you until I saw you again.”

***

Dean had to drag Cas out of bed and into the cab, having packed both of their suitcases and shoved all of Cas’ papers into his messenger bag. The airport was packed, and they had to wait in line for TSA for almost an hour before they finally made it through.

Once they were sat in the terminal (waiting again, forever waiting for planes), Cas pulled a small, cardboard box out of his pocket.

“Here,” he said, and held it out to Dean. “It’s Dramamine. I got you the chewable ones. I thought they might be easier to stomach.”

Dean blushed, and took the box. “Oh. Uh… thanks.”

“How was Sam this morning?” Cas said.

“Good,” Dean said, smiling. “We had a good talk, and then he went off to work.” He stared at the box. “I’m just. I’m so proud of him.” Suddenly, horrifically, his eyes were burning. “He’s done more… I mean… shit! Fuckin’ _law school?_ He’s just, he’s really got it together.” He scrubbed at his eyes. “Sorry, sorry. Shit.”

Cas touched his arm. “Sam has done a lot. He was lucky to have you around when he was younger.” 

Dean shook his head, and shrugged. “Sorry. I feel like such a sap.”

“You’re not a sap,” Cas said. He squeezed Dean’s arm, a careful, but unmistakably intimate gesture. “Dean… I… I want to ask you something. And you don’t have to answer now, but…” He sighed. “Maybe now isn’t the best time.”

Dean grinned. “Go ‘head. Hit me.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. For months. But I don’t want to… I don’t want to make you feel…” Cas looked at him. “Would you consider moving in with me?”

For all that Dean had worried before, he found the question straight on didn’t make him panic as much as he’d expected. Maybe it was the talk with Sam, spilling his guts out like someone had sliced into him with a butcher knife. Maybe it was his clumsy explanation to Bobby, trying to make him understand. It was easier to answer than he’d thought. “Yeah, Cas. I want to.” He did want to. When he stripped away the rest of the background noise, he wanted to. Quieter, he said, “You sure?” 

“Yes,” Cas said softly. “I know it sounds dumb, but I don’t think I’ve ever been surer of anything.” He looked out the windows of the terminal, out to where another plane was starting to taxi. “I was just thinking about how we’re going home, and you’ll go back to your place and I’ll go back to mine, and I hate that. I want us to be going home together.”

Dean felt a strong wave of emotion. “I… me too, Cas.” Mindless of the rest of the people in the airport, he leaned over and gave Cas a soft kiss. Quietly, he said, “I hope you know we’re gettin’ a TV in the bedroom.”

Cas let out a laugh, leaning his head down on Dean’s shoulder. “I suppose we can discuss it.”

“I dunno if I’m gonna be able to wiggle outta my lease,” Dean said. “It ain’t up until January.”

“I’m not worried,” Cas said.

Dean shook his head, and dropped a kiss into Cas’ hair. He sat up, looked around at the crowd. A man a few seats away was staring at them, his brow furrowed. Dean wanted to shrink away, but he held the man’s gaze, glared at him, even. _The fuck you lookin’ at, pervert?_

The man looked away, busied himself on his phone.

_That’s right, asshole,_ Dean thought. _I’m with him, and he’s with me. If you don’t like it, you can fuck off._

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: CONSENT ISSUES. Sexual boundary issues. Sex, bad and good. Cheating, discussions of cheating, arguments, Dean's flight anxiety. 
> 
> Did y'all see the new trailer for Walker? Holy shit, I am dyinggg for it. If you couldn't tell, my favorite thing in the world is melodrama. 
> 
> I'll be taking a break for a week or two, and will resume updating after the holidays. 
> 
> And leave a comment... if you dare...


	5. meltdown.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We disintegrate, we reform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's good to be back. I hope you are well, and had a nice holiday. 
> 
> See TW at the bottom. 
> 
> XOXO,  
> Rosemary

_If it makes you happy  
_ _It can’t be that bad_  
 _If it makes you happy  
_ _Then why the hell are you so sad?_

**Present time, present day.**

December first, and the world had turned to winter, like someone left the world’s freezer door open. It had snowed during the night, not a white-out by any means, but enough that Dean had to excavate the snow shovel from the small shed in the backyard. He dug out the walkway and cleared off the stairs, and then he scraped off the driveway too. He grabbed a soft cloth and swiped the snow off of the Impala, and then, begrudgingly, half-assedly wiped off Cas’ truck too, even though he knew Cas wasn’t driving anywhere. Damn thing probably wouldn’t even start.

Dean stood back for a moment, admiring his car as it sparkled like a black diamond in the snow. He wished they had a garage. Despite his calluses, the shovel left raw spots on the webs between his thumbs and forefingers, and he left it leaned against the wall of the house. He gave a short wave to their nameless, across-the-street neighbor as he emerged with his own shovel in hand, then went back inside, where it was suddenly too-hot. He checked his phone – ignored the two calls from Garth and zero calls from his father. He needed to move his mind elsewhere.

Dean went back upstairs, quiet in the bedroom where Cas still slept, and got into the shower. He relaxed under the hot water, stretching his tired arms and back. Fuck, he hated winter – shoveling sucked, and it was always too cold. But either he shoveled, or they’d both freeze to death snowed in before Cas did it. And really, Dean didn’t mind. Cas would probably do it wrong, anyway.

He ran he hands back through his wet hair, blinking under the spray. The hot water felt great, and he was starting to feel a little horny, frisky from the activity. He reached down and gave his cock a few slow strokes, and it warmed and started to fill, started to get hard, but he stopped himself. This wasn’t quite what he wanted. He scrubbed himself thoroughly and then got out of the shower, drying off in the cold, steamy bathroom. He dropped his towel and walked back into the bedroom, and climbed naked into bed, under the warm blankets, and slid his bare leg over Cas’.

Cas stirred, blinking awake in the dim light, and looked over at him. Cas took in his skin, and smiled. “Oh. Good morning,” he murmured.

“Hey.” Dean curled close to him, tightening his leg around him.

“What a lovely sight to wake up to,” Cas said. Dean felt his fingers tracing down Dean’s chest, his stomach and abdomen, dancing over his growing erection. “How do you want it?”

Dean blushed. “Was thinkin’ maybe a little breakfast in bed?”

“Mmmh…” Cas’ hand slipped around to squeeze Dean’s ass. “I haven’t had that treat in a while.” Cas kissed him, languidly, licking into his mouth and urging his hips to rock against him. Dean slid his fingers under the hem of Cas’ shirt and tugged it up, over his head, and dropped it to the ground. “You smell so nice and clean,” Cas murmured, and kissed him again, his bare chest against Dean’s. “It’s making my mouth water.” Dean felt a thrill go through him like a hot spark.

Cas moved up, urging Dean over onto his stomach. He kissed the back of his neck, and kissed his way slowly down Dean’s spine, his stubble scraping Dean’s skin enticingly, making him shiver. Cas’ warm hands slid down Dean’s back, over the swell of his ass.

“Ah, Cas… you gonna…?”

Cas hummed, pressing his lips to the small of Dean’s back. “You’d better spread those legs.”

Dean felt giddy, suddenly almost dizzy with arousal. He kneeled up, pushing his thighs apart. He could feel Cas’ breath on his skin, his eyes on his most private parts.

“No touching yourself,” Cas murmured. “I’m going to get you off.”

“Okay,” Dean breathed. “Okay, okay, okay, okay…”

Cas’ mouth brushed low, against the sensitive skin at the top of his inner thighs, kissing and gently nipping, making Dean jump. He felt Cas’ mouth graze the swell of his left cheek, his right, and then Cas pushed his cheeks apart and slid the pad of his thumb over Dean’s hole. Dean’s cock was swelling with anticipation.

“Cas… c’mon, _please…_ ” Dean whined. Finally, he felt Cas’ tongue lick firmly over his hole. Dean bit back a groan, arching his back. “ _Mmmmph…”_ Cas’ hands encircled his thighs, keeping them spread apart, and he kept going, licking and licking, burying his face between Dean’s cheeks, no fucking around. “Cas… fuck, yeah… _yeah…”_

Dean loved being eaten out, _loved_ it. The build-up from it made him cum harder than anything. Dean’s hands were tight against the pillows; he had to stop himself from pushing back against Cas’ tongue, stop his hand from going right to his dick.

Cas kept going and going for what felt like hours, his mouth on Dean’s hole, his hands squeezing his thighs, nails occasionally digging in to his skin or scratching, making Dean squirm. He wondered if he could cum from this, if it was possible – his cock was so hard, he bet he could. And then Cas’ tongue was right over his hole, pushing firmly, Cas was practically fucking him with his tongue. Dean moaned wordlessly, his hands going up to fist in his still-damp hair.

“Cas, fuckin’, _goddamn…”_ Dean moaned, his entire body trembling. He could go like this all day. But then Cas’ mouth pulled off of him, and Dean wanted to cry. “ _Cas!_ Don’t stop…!”

“You’re incorrigible,” Cas growled, and then Dean felt Cas’ fingers pressing against his hole.

“Ah, yeah, _yeah…!”_ One of Cas’ long fingers pushed into him, slowly pumping in and out, and then joined it with a second. Dean pushed against the stretch, the burn, it filled him with pleasure.

Dean’s cock was so hard that it was almost getting painful, jerking up against his stomach. Cas’ fingers, his tongue, made him feel so fucking good. And then finally Cas’ hand moved around his hip and stroked his cock one-two-three times, and Dean started cumming like a freight train, just going and going, his entire body exploding with pleasure. He felt it in his fucking teeth.

He was left utterly wrung-out, panting and shivering, his eyes actually watering.

Cas carefully withdrew his fingers, and Dean looked back at him; Cas was using a tissue to wipe off his hands, his mouth. Dean pushed up and grabbed him, yanking him down to the bed, climbed on top of him and kissed him hard. Cas laughed into his mouth, his hands going up to hold Dean’s shoulders.

“Holy shit, Cas,” Dean said. “You fuckin’ animal.” Dean moved down Cas’ body, grabbing the waistband of his pajama pants. He pulled them off, and Cas’ erection sprang free. Dean took him in hand, stroked him slowly. “How ya want it?”

Cas reached out and ran his hand through Deans hair, and cupped his face. “Every way,” he said, and Dean grinned at him. He squeezed Cas’ shaft gently, and then crawled down his body and took his hard cock into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the head, making Cas gasp, and then pulled him in all the way and swallowed. Dean pulled him in deep, into his throat, held him there as long as he could resist the urge to gag. He pulled off, keeping his tongue on the underside of Cas’ cock, right at the head, and then pulled him in again. Up and down, taking comfort in the familiar motion. He couldn’t lie – he loved sucking dick. Loved sucking _Cas’_ dick. Loved the taste, the smell, the way Cas twitched and gasped under him, under his mouth and hands, how he could barely keep himself in control. Dean reached down and cupped his balls, squeezing gently, worked them with his hand.

“Dean! I’m going to _cum…”_ Cas gasped out. Dean held his hips down to the bed and pulled his cock back into his throat. He felt Cas let go beneath him, and Cas came into his mouth, down his throat, and Dean swallowed it all.

Cas sighed, and laid back against the pillows with a satisfied smile. Dean laid next to him, wiping his mouth off on his arm. Cas pulled on his hand until Dean moved, laid flush against him, his head on Cas’ chest.

“Good?” Cas said. Dean could tell he was already drifting back to sleep, sated, and he chuckled.

“Yeah. Good.” He rolled over on to his back and stared up at the ceiling fan while Cas dozed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Dean felt restless, ready to get up. But it felt so nice to just lay there with Cas, warm and comfortable under the blankets. Soft, white light was spilling out around the closed blinds, making the room grey. Dean shut his eyes, lay there for a good twenty minutes.

He finally gave up, and rolled back over on to his side pushing a hand up into his chest hair. “Hey, Cas?”

“Hmm?”

Dean sat up, and Cas cracked his eyes open. “Ya wanna put some lights up with me?”

“Mmh.” Cas’ eyes closed. “In a minute.”

Dean grinned, and pushed the blankets off of himself. “Aright. Sleep all day, then.” He climbed out of the bed, and Cas grumbled something, then turned to peer at the clock.

“It’s not even nine!” he said, pulling the blankets up over his head.

“I’ve been up for hours. I already shoveled.”

“You shoveled?” Cas said, and pulled the blanket back down. “Thank you.”

“I sure did.” Dean pulled on a pair of boxer briefs and a tee-shirt. “So, get your ass outta bed, and hang some Christmas shit up with me.”

Cas rolled his eyes and sat up, stretching his arms over his head. “Very well.”

They had no tree, of course – Dean wouldn’t ask for one, and Cas didn’t care enough to put one up. But they strung some anemic, multi-colored lights around the windows and wrapped some bigger bulbs around the railings on the porch. Dean stood out in the ankle-deep snow and draped a few lines across the shrubs in the front yard, and then hopped back up on to the porch to look it over.

Cas emerged from inside, and held out a mug of coffee.

“Thanks,” Dean said, wrapping his hands around the mug. It was so warm that it was almost too hot on his freezing, pink hands.

“Thank you for putting these up,” Cas said. “It looks lovely.”

Dean snorted. “Nah. It’s fun, though.” He shrugged, and sipped the coffee. “Festive, or whatever.” It was starting to snow again, just a little, tiny flurries settling on the freshly-dug walkways and ploughed street.

“Dean, are you…?” Cas crossed his arms; Dean couldn’t tell if he was uncomfortable or just cold. “Are you feeling all right?”

Dean looked at him, frowning. “Well. Yeah. Why?”

Cas tilted his head to one side, watching him. “I mean about the trip. You’ve hardly said a word about it. I just… wondered. If you were… concerned.”

Dean stared out at the snow. “Hell, Cas. ‘Course I am. Just…” He shrugged. “I dunno. It’d be a helluva lot easier if I could get the old man on the phone. I don’t want Kate to try to make this a surprise reunion or somethin’.”

“God. I certainly hope not.”

Dean shrugged again, still staring out at the snow. He was afraid he would tear up if he looked at Cas again. “I dunno,” he repeated, and took a glug of the too-hot coffee.

“Well… all right,” Cas said, seeming at a loss. “I’m here, if-…”

“I know,” Dean said quickly.

Cas shivered, and stepped back through the door into the house. After a minute, Dean followed him, sat on the couch with his coffee, and turned on the TV. He flipped channels until he landed on pro-wrestling.

“Ah-ha!” he said. Cas groaned.

“Oh, for the love of God.” Cas went into the kitchen. “I’m going into the office.”

“Come on!” Dean said, turning up the volume. “You’re missin’ out!”

“I think I’ll survive.”

Dean laughed quietly to himself as Cas shut the office door. Once Cas was sealed back in the sunroom, Dean pulled his phone out again. Still nothing.

When was the last time he’d seen his father in person? Dean counted back, frowning at the ceiling fan. Ten years? Jesus. Ten years. The last time John had come to Bobby’s while Dean was still living there. Hell, Sam was still living there too. What a mess that visit had been. Dean didn’t even want to think about it.

Once when he was young, Dad stopped them in California. Somewhere deep in the southeast of it, nowhere near water. They stayed in a splintering, plaster and stucco apartment complex, and Dad took a job driving a small mac truck for a grocery store. Summer came down like a hammer, turning the scarce plants brown, setting the surrounding mountains on fire. One night, it was so hot that none of them could sleep. In the dark, Dad took them out to the small complex pool that was surrounded by chain link and old, mismatched deck chairs. He sat in one of them in his shorts, drinking a beer while Dean and Sam splashed in the bathtub-warm water, lit by the flood lights on the building, the lights on the sides of the pool. The water was a perfect, ultra-vivid blue.

“You holdin’ on to your brother?” Dad called. Sam, five years old, could keep his head above water well enough on his own, but Dean was still careful not to let him go.

“Yessir,” he called back. They were keeping to the shallow end, only three feet deep, not even to Dean’s chest when he stood up. Sam kept his arms around Dean’s shoulders as Dean held him up, floating around, his feet on the ground.

And then, something incredible. Dad set down his beer bottle on the glass-topped table, pulled off his shirt, and waded down into the water with them.

“C’mere, Sammy,” he said. “Can you swim to me?”

“Um… yeah!” Sam said, and Dean released his hold on Sam’s shoulders. Sam sank into the water on his own, and dogpaddled over to their father. Dad got him around the middle and picked him up out of the water.

“Good job,” Dad said, hefting him up. “Dean teach you how to do that?”

“Yessir,” Sam said.

“Can you float on your back?”

“Uh… I dunno,” Sam said. “I think so?”

“Show me.” Dad lowered him down into the water and slowly turned him over on to his back, keeping his hands under his shoulders. Dad pulled him around the pool, into the deeper end (it maxed out at six feet). Dean followed, treading water, hoping Dad would see that he could swim on his own, too.

When they were back in the shallow end, Dad pulled Sam up, and set him on the stairs. “Look at that,” Dad said. “Back on solid ground.”

“Me, too?” Dean said, and Dad looked at him, his eyebrows raised, grinning.

“You already know how to swim!” he said, almost jovially.

Dean blushed, and tried to laugh. “Y-Yeah.”

Dad watched him for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Dean sank to his chin in the water, wished he hadn’t asked.

And then, Dad said, “Get on over here, then.” Dean almost slipped on the slick pool floor, paddled over to his father. “Turn on over. On your back.”

Dean turned over in the water. Dad’s hands braced against the back of his shoulders, against his shoulder blades, keeping him up, guiding him around through the water, pulling him into the deep end, and back again. Dad smelled like beer, cigarettes, chlorine. He’d laughed, said, “You don’t need me holdin’ you up. You swim like a fish.”

Dean grinned up at him, but didn’t say anything. Dad pulled him another lap through the pool, through the blue water.

When they stopped in rural areas, forests and farms, sometimes Dean would stand out with his Dad while he smoked, and Dad would point out stars and constellations. The North Star. Vega. Big Dipper and Little. Orion, the Hunter. Cassiopeia. The occasional appearance of Mars or Venus. Dean couldn’t make out anything from the pool that night except for the North Star and the silver nail moon, the sky half-illuminated by the glow of the hundreds of surrounding cities. Dean didn’t care. He wished he could stare at that sky forever.

Dean had told Cas a lot about their travels, the different states, different jobs, different hotels, different apartments. Every few months, somewhere new. Starting over somewhere far away, every time, like they were searching for something. Like Dad was searching for something. 

“You’ve really been everywhere,” Cas had marveled, sounding almost distantly envious.

Dean had shrugged. They had, for all the good it had done them. He’d been nine in the pool. Twenty-two when he’d last seen his father. He was thirty-two now. He’d lived in more places in the first fourteen years of his life than most people saw in their lifetimes, but he couldn’t get his own dad on the phone. Was it really possible that it had been ten years? It seemed impossible, an incalculably long stretch of time. It didn’t feel like it had been a decade. It felt like a blink. Did normal families go so long without seeing each other? Dean doubted it, but what the hell did he know.

And how could the same man who had held him above water in the pool that night have done what he did?

Dean stared at his phone, tried to will it to ring, tried to will himself to dial the number and call. Quit being such a fucking chickenshit and call him yourself. But it didn’t ring, and he didn’t call, and he sat on the couch staring at the TV feeling stuck.

***

Dean’s office at work was a small, windowless room at the back of the garage. It was usually pretty cold, and he had a radiant heater going in the corner cranked up to ten. The walls were plain white brick, covered with pictures of the best classic restorations that the garage had done in the past few years.

The desk had three photos propped up on it that faced him. One of him, Sam, and Bobby. One very nice (artistic, even) picture of the Impala, parked out in front of the garage, looking beautiful. The last one was a picture that Balthazar had taken at his snooty New Year’s Eve party a few years ago. Just he and Cas, standing next to each other in Balthazar’s nice house, giving the camera easy smiles. Just a photo, not even suspicious. Dean picture up the photo, and studied it for a moment.

Something heavy and metal clattered to the concrete out in the garage, and he heard Garth and the others laugh at whoever had fumbled it.

Dean set the picture down, and sat back in the swivel chair. It was December third, which meant nineteen days until they left for Minnesota, and Dean still hadn’t spoken with his father. His fingers drummed on the desk as he stared at the phone. When was the last time he’d spoken to his father? Three months ago, maybe, his father more than a little drunk, asking what was going on with Sam. Always Sam. Dean felt like little more than a middle man.

He glanced at his watch – almost lunch time. The watch had been his father’s. He’d given it to Dean when he was eight years old, not long after his nose was broken. There hadn’t been money for Christmas presents that year; Dad’s credit card had declined at the register when he was buying them, Dean remembered. So, Dad had given him his watch instead. Had taught him how to use the compass, how to tell time.

Dean picked up his cell phone, and scrolled to his Dad’s contact in his phone. Before he could lose his nerve, he tapped _Call._

The phone rang four times. “ _This is John Winchester. Leave a message.”_

No shocker there. “Hey, Dad. It’s Dean. Uh… gimme a call.” Someone started to knock on the office door, and Dean hung up the call, and set the phone on the desk. The latch on the door was broken, which didn’t help with the temperature. “C’mon in,” he called.

The door swung open, and Cas walked into the office, suit and tie and coat. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey!” Dean felt himself smile. “What are you doin’ here, stranger?”

Cas let the door drift shut behind him. “I brought you some lunch. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?” He held up a paper bag with enticing grease spots at the bottom.

“No, I’m starvin’. Pull up a chair.” Cas set the bag down on Dean’s desk, and sat down in one of the metal chairs on the other side. Dean dug into the bag eagerly, withdrew the two wrapped burgers and a boat of fries. “Shit, are you a mind reader or what?”

“Lucky guess.” Cas picked up one of the burgers, unwrapped it. “Anything interesting?”

Dean tore the wrapper off of the other burger and took a bite. “Just payroll,” he said around a mouthful. “I hate management. I hardly ever get to actually work on cars anymore.”

Cas shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll be able to do whatever you want when you own the place.”

Dean nodded. That was a nice thought. “Hope so,” he said. Dean ate quickly, with one eye on his watch. “Sorry, Cas. I don’t wanna rush you. You can still hang out if you want, I just have to get this done before COB.”

“That’s fine,” Cas said, and took the trash off of his desk, tucking it into the greasy bag. He was smiling in a way that made Dean suspicious.

“Why you lookin’ so smug?” Dean said.

Cas laughed quietly, dropping the trash into the small garbage can by the wall. “I have a surprise for you,” Cas said. “A gift. I wanted to tell you as quickly as possible so we could make arrangements.” He opened his bag, and pulled out a piece of paper, then held it out so Dean could see it. It was a printout from a website, with a picture of a big log cabin in the middle of a snowy forest.

_Red Cedar Forest Retreat – Luxury Cabins_

Dean frowned. “What is it?”

Cas smiled. “I’ve reserved two nights at a cabin on the way to Windom. I thought we could stop and have a miniature vacation before we see your father.” Dean’s stomach tightened. “It has TV, a jacuzzi, a king-sized bed, and a huge fireplace. You’re going to love it.”

Dean’s frown deepened. “You reserved it for _when_?”

“Two nights before we’re expected in Windom. I thought it would be a nice way for us to relax ahead of time. A soft of stopover before-…”

“No way, Cas,” Dean said, pushing the paper back to Cas, his stomach twisting. “I… can’t take more time off work.”

Cas’ smile tensed. He was still holding the paper out, like a rejected engagement ring. “I… Dean. You’re the manager. You work almost every day. You can take another two days off.”

“How much was this?”

Cas paused. “Dean,” he said, in a placating tone that made Dean even more irritated. “That doesn’t matter. It’s a gift.”

“Goddammit!” Dean snapped. “I’ve told you, I don’t need you buyin’ shit like this!”

Cas sat back, obviously surprised at the outburst. “I…” His face flushed. “I wanted to-…”

Dean cut him off. “This shit drives me fuckin’ crazy when you do this! I can’t take time off, and I know if _you_ picked this place, then it’s too fuckin’ expensive. I-…”

“ _I wanted to do this as a gift,_ Dean,” Cas said, louder, talking over him. “Your Christmas present. I know you’re stressed out by this trip, and I wanted to do something _nice for you._ I am so…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I am so tired of you acting like this every time-…”

“What the hell do you meant, ‘acting like this?’” Dean spat. “Jesus. I don’t need you comin’ in here, throwin’ your money around and shit when I’m tryin’ to work! Fuckin’ hell, you always-…”

Cas slammed the paper down on the desk, and looked Dean dead in the eye. “Fuck you, Dean.”

He jerked to his feet, grabbed his bag, and swept out of the office, slamming the door behind him so hard that it bounced against its broken latch and swung all the way open, hit the opposite wall, and bounced back to the frame again.

Dean sat there with his jaw hanging pen, awash with embarrassment at the whole situation, knowing that his employees had a good idea of what had just happened and had seen the aftermath. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

His brain caught up to his mouth, and he though back over the last five minutes, wincing at the way he’d acted. Shit. He was going to hear about this later.

Garth knocked on the abused door, and stuck his head into the office. He looked somehow both smug and concerned. “Everything hunky-dory in here, boss?”

Dean’s head felt disconnected from his body. “Get… out…” he bit out, pointing at the door. Garth held up his hands, laughing quietly to himself as he left the office.

Dean sat alone, stewing, embarrassed and angry.

***

That night Dean sat in the office at home, dreading what was to come when Cas returned.

He wished ardently that Cas hadn’t sprung the trip on him like that. He knew Dean was nervous about seeing his father again, that he was stressed as hell about the whole damn trip. Why did he have to go and do something like that?

Ah, hell. Who was Dean kidding? This was his fault and he knew it. So stupid. He was _so stupid._ Was he ever going to fucking learn? This was just like their blow-up when he first moved in, the dozen blow-ups since then. All about money. Was he ever going to learn to bite back the viper that snapped out of him and just say _thank you?_

Dean squinted at the computer, tried to force himself to focus. He was getting nowhere, though, and he may as well go sit and stare at the TV.

His phone buzzed, and he snatched it off of the desk.

_From Cas: Going to Balthazar and Raphael’s for a while. Home late._

Shit. Dean stared at the text, reading and rereading it. This was perhaps the worst possible outcome – Dean being left to obsess over it all night. He typed and deleted a dozen replies, mostly variations of _Will you just come home so we can get this over with?_ But in the end, he sent a simple, _Ok._

He couldn’t work like this, couldn’t read or watch TV with this fight hanging over his head like a guillotine. Dean gave up and went to the gym.

Dean wasn’t much a gym-guy, but it wasn’t a bad way to blow off steam. He spent some time on the weight machines, arms and legs, before moving to the treadmill. He wanted to exhaust himself, totally shut his brain off. He couldn’t stop his thoughts from racing.

_Cas… do you think that a lot?_ He slowed the machine down to a walk. _Do you think, ‘Fuck you, Dean?’_ The thought made his heart pound, made adrenaline rush through his limbs.

He hated, _hated_ the thought of Cas sitting at Raphael and Balthazar’s, lounging on their expensive, antique furniture, drinking aged wine from French vineyards with names that Dean couldn’t pronounce, Cas probably telling the two of them of yet another one of Dean’s fuck-ups. Dean, big, beautiful, dumb Dean. All the grace of a fucking rampaging gorilla. He imagined Balthazar in Cas’ ear, saying something stupid, like, _This is why you don’t marry for looks, darling!_ And Raphael would say something like, _Cas-ti-ehhhl, haven’t I told you about my much wealthier, better-looking, younger colleague who is single and looking? He has a few fewer miles on him than Dean, if you catch my drift._

Dean had to stop the treadmill and brace his head in his hands for a moment, dizzy and panicked by his imagined scenario. Damn it, he was being dumb, working himself up for no reason. He straightened up, and then pushed his legs back to stretch.

A big bear of a guy was watching him from the free weights. Thick, muscular arms and legs, a close-trimmed beard – he reminded Dean a little bit of his ex, Benny. The man gave him a pretty blatant once-over, his eyes lingering on Dean’s ass. Dean scowled at him, and looked pointedly away. It was an offer Dean would have leapt at six or seven years ago; now the thought made him nauseous. He hated being looked at like that. Like he was a piece of meat.

After two hours, his arms and legs were like rubber, and he was drenched through with sweat. He rinsed off in the gym shower, cringing away from the walls and kicking himself for forgetting his shower sandals.

He didn’t go home right away. Instead, he drove around for a while, aimless, letting the rumble of the engine calm him down.

There were snow flurries in the air by the time he reached their house. The driveway was empty. Cas still wasn’t back. Dean sat in the car for a moment, with absolutely no desire to go inside to the dark house. Once he killed the engine, the cold crept in quickly, so he put his head down and went inside. Suddenly too tired to do anything else, he went to bed, and lay awake for a long time.

_The night presses in around them, Sammy is crying and crying in his ear, and Dean stares up at the burning house. The living room windows explode out, glass catching in the red light._ Where are they? Where are they? Please God please God please God please God, _and then Dad finally runs out of the house, Mommy wrapped up in a blanket in his arms, and he sets her down in the wet grass and Dean can see her burned dress and her hair is gone or grey like burned grass and her face in raw meat_

Dean woke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding out of his chest. He sat up in bed, swinging his legs over to get his feet on the floor, something solid under him, and nearly knocked the light over in his haste to turn it on. He sat for a moment, inundated with panic, breathing deep until his heartbeat slowed, staring at the bathroom door. 

Movement in the bed beside him. “Turn off the light! What are you doing?” Cas growled, pulling the blankets over his head.

“S-Sorry!” Dean choked out, and shut the light off. He saw the clock, that it was just past three in the morning. “I’m gonna… just gonna…” He got off the bed and left the room, went downstairs to sit on the couch. He was too amped to sleep, too anxious. He pulled one of the throw blankets over his shoulders, and turned on the TV.

He waited and waited, wishing Cas would follow him down, but he never did.

***

Something cooled between them after. Cas stayed at the school late, and went straight to the gym or for a long run after. If he made it home before Dean went to bed, he went right into the office, or upstairs, and Dean would barely get a “Hello.” If they ate dinner together, Cas would eat silently, his eyes on nothing. They laid next to each other in bed, backs to each other, Cas on the furthest edge of the mattress, as far away from Dean as possible. It was hell.

Sex was important to Dean. Not just sex, but physicality. Intimacy. It was something that reassured him, made him feel connected with his lovers. And yes, okay, maybe it was a little too important, and he definitely had his hang-ups, but at the end of the day it was something he needed. And sex with Cas had always been good. Even the first few encounters, always awkward with a new partner, before you know their bodies and what they like, what they hate, what tickles, what makes them cum – it was still good. Their first time, just going at each other in Cas’ office, and then their second time, just right at it in the Impala – that had fueled Dean’s fantasies for weeks after. Their sex was passionate, hungry, sometimes rough (Dean’s preference), sometimes slower and sweeter, sometimes quick and dirty, sometimes a long, drawn-out affair that could take all night. And after a fight, their make-up sex was pretty fucking mind-blowing.

But after that fight, there was nothing, not even a kiss on the cheek. And in a blink, a week went by. A week and some change. And still, Cas barely looked him in the eye. They’d never been like this before, not even at their worst. This was something ese, a whole different beast. Cas always made it easy to apologize. But not now.

Work was a struggle. Dean was short with his team, keeping to the office so that he wouldn’t upset customers. He finally gave up and went home early one day after almost biting Garth’s head off.

The night before had been… strange. Another day of frigidity from Cas, one “Hello,” when he walked in the door, a “Thank you for cooking,” after a silent dinner. Dean felt at the end of his rope. He was desperate for Cas to look at him, to touch him, even on accident, but Cas stayed away. In bed, Cas slept, his back to Dean, facing the wall. Dean laid there awake, trying to think of something to say. An apology was the right move, of course. But where to start?

Dean felt tilted, off his head. He knew he was being stupid, that this was his own fault, but Cas had never acted like this before.

Dean listened to Cas’ soft, even breathing. Carefully, he inched across the bed so that he was as close to Cas as possible without touching him, could smell his shampoo and feel the warmth from his body. He closed his eyes.

And then he woke, warm and comfortable in the grey morning light. His arm was wrapped around Cas’ waist, and Cas’ hand was on his arm. Not pushing him away, just holding him, his thumb moving gently back and forth against Dean’s skin.

He moved away from Cas quickly, sitting up and climbing off of the bed in a rush. Cas turned over and looked back at him.

“I, uh…” Dean got out. “I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Cas murmured.

“Uh… s-sorry,” Dean got out. Cas watched him, inscrutable, but didn’t say anything else. At a loss, Dean turned around and went straight into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. He jerked off under the spray, ashamed, wanting to bash his face against the wall.

Now he sat in his office, staring at the computer, and the minimized box of Cas’ email sitting in the toolbar. Cas usually left his email open – he could never remember his passwords anyway. Dean left his email open too, so he was able to get into it easily.

He had enough of his own mess, he didn’t need to go searching through Cas’ too.

Dean stared at the tab for a long minute. The first sight of warming from Cas, and what was he doing?

But this wasn’t snooping. Right? Cas’ email was open, anyway. And Dean wanted… needed… to get an idea of where Cas’ head was at.

Dean clicked into Cas’ email.

His trepidation turned to relief fairly quickly. Spam, classwork, emails from students. Stupid internet memes from Gabriel, left on read. Nothing that could imply anything suspicious was going on. No love letters, no hotel bills, no evidence that he was looking for another place to live.

Dean sat back in his seat, ashamed of himself. He was about to minimize the screen again, when his eye caught on a week-old _Reservation_ email. He clicked on it.

_We’re sorry you had to cancel your reservation with Red Cedar Forest Retreat. We hope you stay with us again soon!_

The rest of the email was a refund slip for the cabin that Cas had booked.

“Ah, fuck,” Dean hissed. He hadn’t even thought about the trip in days. “Fuck me. Fuck me. I am the dumbest fucker on the planet.”

He closed out of the email, and got to his feet.

Dean couldn’t take this. Not one more second of it. He was going to EKC right now. He’d march right into Cas’ office and apologize, beg for forgiveness, demand to take him out to eat, whatever it took. He’d fix this if it killed him.

The campus wasn’t far, and Dean was circling for a parking spot when he saw him.

Cas was standing near the doorway of one of the buildings, talking with someone – clearly a man, though Dean couldn’t tell his age, student or professor. They were both smoking, cigarette smoke swirling around them in the cold air, a pale cloud. Their heads close together, almost conspiratorially. Dean sat there idling, staring at them, until someone behind him honked. Cas turned, presumably to look at the commotion on the street, and Dean floored it away. His hands were shaking on the wheel.

***

Cas walked into the house just after five and looked at Dean where he sat on the couch, apparently surprised to see him there. Fair enough – it was earlier than Dean usually got off work. All the better.

Dean stared up at him from his seat. “Smoking again, huh?” he said, brittlely.

Cas scowled, and shook his head. “I thought that might have been you. Are you, what? Spying on me?”

“Do I need to?”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Cas said quietly, and pulled off his coat.

“Don’t. Don’t… _do that._ ” Dean jerked to his feet. “So, who was he?”

Cas stared at him, looking honestly confused. He stooped down to pull off his shoes. “Who?”

“Your… your buddy. Your smoking buddy.”

“I… Inias?” Cas straightened. “He’s an adjunct. We were talking about…” And then his face darkened, and he gave Dean a level stare. “Are you joking? Are you asking me if I’m fucking around? Is that what this is?”

“Maybe!” Dean squawked, feeling unhinged. “What the fuck do I know? I’ve been sleeping next to a block of ice for days. I feel like I don’t know shit anymore.”

Cas stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve haven’t touched me in almost two fucking weeks. You’ve hardly even looked at me. You haven’t talked to me, you haven’t… _nothing!”_

“You are unbelievable. Do you think I don’t know that?” Cas snapped. “After the fit you threw, I can hardly stand to be in the same room with you.”

Unable to hold back another moment, Dean let it all tumble out of him like vomit. “I am _sorry._ Okay? I am sorry I blew up about the trip. I shouldn’t have. I was a fucking asshole. I am going out of my fuckin’ mind about seein’ my dad again, and I just couldn’t take another… _thing._ I could not take one more thing to do. Okay?”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that when I gave you the reservation?” Cas demanded.

“I dunno. Because I’m an asshole. Okay? It’s all my fault, I’m the one who ruins everything. Okay?”

“That’s not good enough, Dean. None of that is good enough.”

Dean wanted to scream. “Why _not?”_ Cas shook his head, and folded his arms across his chest. “What? Go on. What?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Cas looked away, actually looked a little disconcerted. “Because it’s not fair. Because I said I wouldn’t say one word about it again.”

Dean threw his hands up in the air. “I think we’re pretty far past that, Cas, so why don’t ya just lay it on me?”

Cas practically puffed up in anger. “If you are dreading this trip _so badly,_ then I don’t understand why we’re going at all. Let’s just not go. Your father put you through hell when you were a child, he didn’t even care enough to invite you himself, so why are you _bothering?”_

There it was. Dean stared at him for a moment, breathing hard, unable to even form a response, because he knew Cas was right. Why was he bothering?

Cas seemed to feel like he’d gone too far, because he looked away.

_Because I can still remember the way he wrapped the watch around my wrist. I can still remember the feeling of being held above the water._

“I’m…” Dean started, and had to try again. “I haven’t seen him in… God, Cas. Ten years. I’ve hardly spoken to him. I’m… Maybe he wants to make it right. Maybe it’ll be horrible. I dunno. But I’m willing to give him a chance.” And then, because he was pissed, he added, “Just because you’ve written your own parents off doesn’t mean I can do the same for mine.”

Cas’ face paled, and then went bright red, and Dean knew he’d fucked up, gone too far himself. “I have not _written my parents off,”_ Cas hissed, and then moved away from Dean and went upstairs.

“No, don’t fuckin’ walk away, goddammit!” Dean followed him upstairs and into the bedroom. Cas had taken off his suit jacket, and then he pulled off his tie, glaring at Dean over his shoulder. “I don’t wanna do this, Cas. I fuckin’ _hate this._ I’d rather just… just _leave_ if it’s gonna be like this much longer, because I can’t take it!”

“Then let’s just not do this,” Cas said, his eyes blazing, turning to face Dean like he was squaring up for a fight. Dean stared back at him, practically holding his breath. That hadn’t been what he’d expected.

And then Cas grabbed a handful of Dean’s flannel as Dean’s hands went to grab the collar of his shirt, and they dragged each other into a bruising kiss.

_Yesyesyes finally._ Dean slung his arms around Cas’ body and pulled him closer. Part of him was screaming, _wait, this is a bad idea bad idea, dumb stupid bad idea,_ but the much louder part of him urged him forward, eagerly rolled over when Cas shoved him down on the bed. Cas climbed on top of him, pushing Dean’s flannel over his shoulders, and then he jerked his shirt up over his head.

“Is this what you need?” Cas growled.

Dean was practically panting, his cock an iron bar in his pants. He could see the bulge against Cas’ fly, and he wanted it so badly he almost started drooling. “Y-Yeah, Cas,” he got out, his hands finding the buttons of Cas’ shirt. Cas undid his cuffs, and then pulled the shirt off and dropped it to the floor. “I can’t fuckin’ wait another second.”

Cas undid Dean’s belt, and then pulled his jeans down, taking his briefs with them.

“Look how hard you are,” Cas said, dropping his jeans to the floor. “Are you that desperate for it?”

Dean didn’t say anything, just moved his hands to Cas’ belt, his face on fire. Cas got his slacks and underwear off, and kicked them off the bed. He laid out over Dean, chests and stomachs and groins together. Dean groaned, grabbing Cas’ hips and urging him to grind against him.

“You want it so badly,” Cas said. “Should I even finger you, or show I just fuck you now?”

_(I should fuck you dry)_

Dean tensed, his entire body seizing up like he was electrified. Cas paused, and pulled back a little to look at him.

“Dean. I wouldn’t really ever-…” Cas started, but Dean cut him off.

_(The pain would make you cum)_

“That’s not funny,” Dean snapped.

Cas drew back a little more, studying him, clearly putting the brakes on. Dean wanted to cry out, this was the opposite of what he wanted.

“S-Sorry,” Dean mumbled. His heart was still in his throat. All this shit, digging up the past, was putting him in a bad spot. Reminding him of things. “Just don’t like that.”

“All right,” Cas said, looking fully confused. Why wouldn’t he be, after Dean was revving him up before? Shit, he needed to fix it. He leaned over and reached into the bedside table, and withdrew the bottle of lube.

“Better hurry up before you blow your load,” he said, trying to move them back, to where they had been, angry and turned on and ready to fuck out the tension.

Cas took the lube out of his hand slowly, still watching him. Then he moved back so that he was fully on top of Dean, and kissed him again. “You’d better spread your legs, then.”

Dean spread his legs apart, and Cas’ slick fingers found his hole quickly. He shoved two fingers inside him hard, making Dean’s body jerk. The burn was almost too much, and Dean bit his lip hard to keep from crying out. Cas seemed to be able to tell, because he slowed it down, moving his fingers inside Dean, teasing his prostate, making him even harder. Then he pushed a third finger inside, and Dean couldn’t stop the soft sounds he was making, whimpers and grunts as Cas teased him. His thighs were starting to shake, his cock jerking and dripping on his stomach.

“Do you want it?” Cas murmured. “You want to get fucked?”

“Y… _ah…_ y-yeah,” Dean got out. A sheen of sweat had broken out on his chest, under his arms. “Fuckin’ want it…”

Cas pulled his fingers out, and stroked his own erection until he was fully hard. “Turn over. I know what you need.”

Dean rolled over eagerly, pushing up on his hands and knees. Cas pushed down hard on his back, shoving him back down to the bed with his ass in the air. “Fuck-… _ah!”_ Cas pushed his cock in, straight _in,_ deep, to the fucking hilt, making Dean gasp. His hands went tight in the sheets. “Oh, fuck… oh, fuck…” Cas was fucking _in him…_

“Do you have any idea how you look? Squirming at the end of my cock?”

Dean couldn’t respond. He was panting from the effort of taking it, his entire body trembling, it was so fucking good. Cas’ hand was warm where it held him down, almost gentle, petting him. Cas slid his cock almost all the way out, then pushed back in while Dean moaned wordlessly.

Cas slid his fingers into Dean’s hair and pulled, making Dean’s back arch. “Is this what I have to do? Fuck some sense into you?”

“Ah! Yeah… yeah…!” Dean moaned, grinding back against Cas’ cock. “Fuckin’ need it… fuck me, Cas… _fuck…”_ He let out another groan, bracing his hands on the headboard. “Do it fuckin’ _hard…”_

Cas snapped his hips hard, jerking Dean’s entire body forward, and Dean moaned and whimpered, pushing back against his thrusts, not caring that he was being wanton and loud and desperate, it felt so fucking good, and Cas growled and fucked him harder, spurred on by the sounds Dean was making, and then Cas’ fingers closed around his wrist and he pulled Dean’s arm up behind his back-…

Dean’s blood froze, his stomach crawling up into his throat. “No!” he said. “ _No!”_ He yanked his arm away, swiping out with his elbow and catching Cas hard in the stomach. Cas bent double and his cock slipped out of Dean, and Dean pushed away from him, curling up at the head of the bed.

“Dean!” Cas said, clutching his stomach. “I-…”

“Did you…? Did you just do that… on…?” Dean couldn’t even get the question out. _Did you do that on purpose?_

Cas seemed to be able to tell what he was trying to say. “ _No,”_ he said, looking mortified. “ _No,_ Dean, I, I’m _so sorry,_ it was an accident! I was just trying… I didn’t even _think,_ oh, _fuck,_ that was so stupid, I’m so sorry!”

Stricken with the sudden panic, ashamed, unable to catch his breath. Dean felt hot tears on his face. “Cas, _why?_ ” He felt it again, that horrible urge to take it on himself – it was his own fault, he should have known, he deserved it, he actually almost started to apologize – and he huddled over his arm, could practically feel his wrist breaking again, could feel it snapping in half, bones grating together under his hand.

“Dean, I would _never…_ I… Oh, my God.” Cas folded a hand over his mouth, his eyes glassy. “Oh, my God. I am so stupid. I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t believe… I’m so sorry. Dean, I’m so sorry. Can I hold you? Please, sweetheart, let me hold you.”

Dean pushed away from him to sit over the edge of the bed, needing to feel the solid floor under his feet, his heart still beating out of his chest. “Get the fuck away from me,” he said, but his words had no bite with the wobble in his voice. “I-I’m fine. It’s fine.”

“ _No, it isn’t!”_ Cas said, sounding almost hysterical for a moment, his voice ragged. He quieted, taking slow, deep breaths behind him, clearly getting ahold of himself. Dean was grateful for it; it gave him a moment to put his own self together. Then Cas said, “What can I do? Dean? Should I leave you alone? I’ll leave if you want me to.”

Dean quickly shook his head. Cas, leave him alone again? He’d rather slit his wrists.

“Okay. Okay.” He heard Cas take another slow breath. “Can I touch you? Dean, can I…?” Dean nodded, and then he felt the careful touch of Cas’ hand on his bare back. “Is this all right?”

Dean nodded again, and he was able to sit up straight, to lean back against Cas’ hand. He was so embarrassed he could hardly see straight. “I’m fine. I’m aright. It’s just… you just s-surprised me, is all.”

Cas’ other hand moved against his back, and he felt Cas’ forehead resting against his shoulder. Dean slid back in the bed until he was flush against Cas’ body, and he turned around so he could crawl into Cas’ arms. Cas held him tightly, and Dean pulled one of the blankets up over him, over both of them, wanting to be covered and insulated away from everything.

“Sweetheart,” Cas murmured, kissing his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s fine. You just forgot. It’s fine.”

“It’s my fault, Dean, all of it. Everything. I’ve, I’ve been appalling, I’m so sorry.”

“No… No, I was a such a dick, Cas, you were just tryin’ to do somethin’ nice, and I just shit all over it.”

“Let’s forget it. Let’s just forget it.” Cas kissed his forehead, then his cheek. “That was a stupid idea. Playing like that when we’re both feeling… vulnerable. I’m sorry.” Cas kissed him softly. He was right; Dean felt like a raw wound right now. Like someone had peeled a scab off of his entire body, and he was gushing blood everywhere.

“No. It’s… I wanted it. Wanted it like that. Not your fault.” Dean slid a hand down Cas’ ribs, and touched his stomach where Dean had elbowed him. “Is… did I hurt you? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” Cas covered Dean’s hand with his own. “You just knocked the wind out of me. No harm done.”

Cas had felt so good inside him, long and thick and strong, and now the space inside him was wet and cold. Empty. Cas’ cock was still warm, hard, pressed against Dean’s thigh. Cas seemed content to ignore it, but Dean still wanted… something. More. He wanted them back, wanted their connection back, wanted Cas back inside him. He shifted, pressing his body firmly against Cas’ erection.

Cas grunted, moving his hips back. “Dean…” he said, his deep voice making Dean shiver.

Dean leaned up and kissed him. “Let’s keep goin’,” he whispered. “Wanna finish.”

Cas let out a hard breath, one hand going tight on Dean’s hip. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Dean wasn’t above begging. He pushed his cock against Cas’ hip; he was getting hard again, and Cas’ erection was hot against his abdomen. “Please, Cas, I want you inside me again, I want it so fuckin’ bad… I want to make you cum, I just want-….” Those horrible, treacherous words, trying to rear up out of his mouth – _I just want things to be all right with us._ He swallowed them back. “I j-just want you. Want you inside me.”

Cas’ tenuous control snapped, and he rolled them over so that Dean was on his back. “Christ… you make me feel so out of control sometimes…” Cas murmured. “Are you sure? Dean? Are you sure?”

“Yes, Cas, yes, please…”

“You will tell me if we need to stop. All right?”

“Uh-huh. I will.”

“Oh, fuck.” Cas’ hand delved down between his legs, his fingers sliding into his hole, still slick, stretching and feeling.

“I’m ready,” Dean insisted, pushing back against his fingers. Cas grabbed the lube off of the bedside table, and slicked his cock again, then guided his cock down until Dean felt the blunt push of it inside him. He flexed his toes in the sheets, rocking against the pressure. 

Cas fucked him slowly this time, working Dean’s cock in time with his thrusts. Dean heard himself whimpering and begging, heat rushing into his face and chest. “Cas… c’mon, Cas… give it to me… fuck… please… _please, ah, fuck…_ so fuckin’ good… _uhh…”_ Cas felt so good inside him, felt so _right,_ Cas really was gonna fuck some sense into him, get his head on straight. Everything felt right when they were like this. Everything felt good.

Cas wrapped his arms around Dean’s body and started to fuck him harder, and then Cas groaned deep and loud and Dean felt him cumming inside him.

“Oh, Dean…” Cas moaned, and Dean wrapped his legs around Cas to keep him there against him.

Cas pushed his hand between their bodies and gripped Dean’s erection, still hot and straining against Dean’s belly. “Not there yet?”

Dean shook his head. “It’s okay.”

Cas kissed him softly on the lips, and then slid down Dean’s body and pulled his cock into his mouth.

“ _Ah!”_ Dean grabbed the sheets, forced himself not to thrust up. Cas’ mouth was hot and wet, fucking paradise around his dick. Dean loved feeling Cas’ mouth on him, loved feeling Cas’ body between his legs, Cas’ stubble scraping his thighs. “Close, Cas, gonna… _ah… ah…!”_ He couldn’t hold back for even a second, and he came in Cas’ mouth. Instead of pulling off, Cas swallowed Dean down, pulling him into his throat. “ _Oh, fuck, Cas…”_ Dean gurgled, every muscle in his body tensing like a cramp as his orgasm rolled through him.

Cas finally pulled off of his cock, and Dean collapsed back against the pillows, boneless. “Fuck, Cas. You never swallow.”

Cas just chuckled quietly. He pulled a tissue out of the box on the bedside table, and wiped his mouth, then tossed the tissue into the garbage beside the bed. He laid back beside Dean and wrapped him up in his arms.

Dean pulled all of the blankets and the sheets back over them.

***

Dean woke, confused and fuzzy in the dark room. He looked blearily at the clock; it was almost eight in the evening.

“Shit,” he grumbled, sitting up. He was covered in dried sweat, sticky and crusty and needed a shower. He extricated himself from Cas’ arms, and crawled out of bed. Still hazy from the sex, the unexpected nap, he wandered into the shower and stood in the water for a few minutes before soaping up.

A minute later he heard Cas come into the bathroom to clean up himself. He wondered if Cas would join him in the shower. Wanted him to. Didn’t want him to. He wasn’t sure.

Cas didn’t seem sure either. “Dean?” he said. “Is… are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Dean said quickly. “Fine. Just needed to rinse off. Ya know.” He laughed quietly. “ _Someone_ didn’t wear a condom.”

But Cas didn’t laugh, or joke back at him. Quietly, he said, “I’m sorry. I should have asked.”

“Cas. Shit.” Dean opened the shower door and leaned out. Cas looked upset. “I’m completely kidding. Okay? I’m fine.”

Cas nodded, and then tried to smile. “You have soap on your nose,” he said, and left the bathroom.

Dean finished his shower and toweled off in the steamy bathroom. His stomach rumbled, and he frowned. Why was he so damn hungry?

Oh, right. He hadn’t eaten dinner.

“Hey,” he said, coming in to the bedroom. He frowned, his nose wrinkling; it smelled like weed. And indeed, Cas was standing beside the open window, dressed now in a zip-up sweater and joggers, smoking a joint. It made Dean pause – he hadn’t seen Cas smoke weed in a while. “I’m, uh. I’m starving. You hungry? How ‘bout breakfast for dinner?”

Cas took one more hit, and stabbed the joint out on his little ashtray, then shut the window. “Sure,” he said. “I’m going to change the sheets.”

“Uh…” Dean looked down at the ransacked bed. “Good idea.”

Cas gave him the same unsmiling half-smile he’d given him earlier, and Dean threw on some sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt before heading downstairs.

It was warmer downstairs, and Dean pushed up his sleeves, decided to just go for it, and mixed up a batch of pancakes, scrambled some eggs, and fried up some bacon.

Cas passed Dean in the kitchen on his way to the laundry. The downstairs bathroom was a big room that doubled as a laundry room, with the toilet and sink, and the washer and drier lined up against the opposite wall.

“That smells amazing,” Cas said, shifting the full laundry basket.

“Mighta made too much,” Dean admitted, flipping the last pancake onto the stack.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll finish it,” Cas said, and disappeared into the bathroom. The washer rumbled to life a moment later, growling and sputtering.

Dean plated up the food and set it on the table, where Cas joined him after a minute. Ravenous, Dean helped himself to a smattering of everything, watching Cas pick unenthusiastically at his food out of the corner of his eye. He cleaned his plate, and then scooped up seconds. “You, uh… not hungry?” he said. Cas’ plate was still half-full.

“I…” Cas set his fork down. “I’m not seeing anyone else. You know that, right?” Cas looked at him. “It’s important to me that you know that.”

Blood rushed into Dean’s face. “I… shit. I know. I didn’t really think you were. Was just bein’ stupid.” He thought about what he’d said earlier, and it made him want to fold in half in shame. “God. Can we just… let’s pretend that didn’t happen. I didn’t mean any of that… shit.” He shoveled half of a pancake into him mouth, grimacing.

Cas looked back at his plate.

“Cas, really.” Dean shook his head. “I was out of line with that. I had no… I was just… you weren’t talkin’ to me, and I got it all spun up in my head, and… I know you would never do that. Okay?”

“Okay.” Cas took a bite of his eggs, and studied the salt and pepper shakers.

They dumped their dishes in the sink after, both silently deciding to leave them for the next day.

“I’m not ready for bed yet,” Cas said. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Sure,” Dean said. He plopped down on the couch, and turned on the TV. Cas sat beside him, close, practically in his lap. “Um… what do you wanna watch?”

Cas shook his head, and pulled a blanket over them. “You pick.”

Dean slung an arm around Cas’ shoulders, and Cas folded against him, laid an arm over his waist. Dean flipped through their streaming options until he found a horror movie.

“How ‘bout this?” he said.

Cas didn’t even look up. “Sounds good.”

***

Things were better, finally, thankfully better. But something was still off. Cas continued his weird deference to Dean about almost everything – _Take out? Sounds good. Horror movies? Sure._ He didn’t bitch about Dean’s workload, wasn’t cranky with him when he turned the light on at 7AM on Saturday. When he changed the sheets, they were to the cotton jersey that Dean preferred, and not the thousand-thread-count-Egyptian-cotton-nonsense that Cas insisted on.

And he was being extra-sweet in bed. Their sex-life was back on track, thank fuckin’ God, but it was still a little… off. Different. Cas gave Dean almost all of his attention, always kissing and touching him, being gentle and sweet. Too gentle. Too sweet. Sleeping with his arms wrapped around him after, every time. Dean couldn’t help but admit that he did like the extra kisses, the extra closeness. But, to be frank, sometimes he needed a little space in bed. Cas always had the heat too high, and Dean slept hot. And, goddammit, he _liked_ the rougher stuff, liked it when Cas just went at him, fucked him hard, scratched him, used his teeth, bossed him around. But now Cas was treating him like he was made of glass.

Something was clearly off. But how was he supposed to tell Cas, _Stop being so nice to me?_

Besides all of that, nothing was fitting right, and Dean hadn’t apologized properly, not really. Not his _I’m-such-a-martyr-I-ruin-everything_ apology, not his weepy apology during sex. Nothing said during sex counted anyway, right? Not I’m-sorrys, not I-love-yous, none of it.

Dean sat in their home office, hands behind his head, and he stared out the windows at the snowfall in the backyard. It had warmed for a few days, melting the snow most of the way, and then frozen, leaving the remainder jagged and frozen chunks in the grass.

It was December 15. Things were still weird with Cas, he hadn’t heard back from his father, and they were leaving in a week. He didn’t know what to do about Cas, and he didn’t know who to talk to about it. He didn’t feel right talking about shit like this with friends. He didn’t feel right… complaining. About Cas. To anyone really, but especially to someone like Charlie, who would probably suggest something dumb as a joke. Bobby would do his best to help, but Dean knew he would be deeply uncomfortable trying to talk about it – Dean would also rather die than try to talk to Bobby about the relationship problems he was having with a man. It would probably just be more evidence to him that Dean should “settle down with a nice girl.”

Sam, though… he was the smartest guy Dean knew. And he’d been with Jess for the better part of, what… eight years? They’d probably had some barnburners in their time. And Jess came from money. She and Cas were a lot alike, when it got right down to it.

Cas was still at school, giving a final exam until late. Dean dialed Sam’s number.

“ _Hey!”_ Sam greeted him. “ _What’s up?”_

“Not too much,” Dean said. “I’m not interruptin’ your work or anything, am I?”

“ _No, I actually just got home. Just walked in the door.”_

Dean balked. “Uhm… what’s goin’ on with you?” he said.

Sam launched into telling Dean about his job, the case he was working on, his clients ( _It’s crazy, we’re as busy as we’ve ever been with this administration),_ Jess ( _She’s great, she wants to get a cat though),_ their apartment situation ( _I think we’re both ready for a bigger place, but it’s so expensive. I’d rather keep living where we are now)._

“ _How’re you?”_ Sam said. “ _How’s Cas?”_

“He’s… fine.”

Sam paused. “ _What?”_

Dean swallowed, suddenly getting cold feet. “It’s… we’re… kinda in a weird place right now. It’s nothing. I mean… it’s fine. I dunno.”

Sam was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “ _Come on, man. What is it? Do you need to talk about it?”_

Dean blushed. “No. I mean…” He swallowed again. “It… was so stupid. The fight. And it just… snowballed. Ya know? And now I don’t know how to fix it.”

“ _Did you try apologizing and saying it was all your fault?”_ Sam said, and laughed quietly.

“First of all,” Dean said in a huff. “Why are you assuming it was my fault? And second of all, _yes,_ I did that already. That’s all done. The fight’s done. He’s just… we’re kinda on egg shells around each other right now, and it sucks because…”

He stopped himself abruptly. He hadn’t told Sam about Minnesota yet. “Ah, shit. W-Well… uh… fuck.” Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. This was not going at all how he’d hoped, and it wasn’t going to get better. “Okay. I gotta… listen. I need to tell you something, and please don’t… don’t freak out, or get mad at me for not tellin’ you sooner or something. Okay?”

“ _Uh… okay?”_ Sam sounded utterly bewildered. “ _What is it? You’re freaking me out, here.”_

Dean blew out a hard breath. “Cas and I are goin’ to see Dad.” He paused. Sam was quiet. “And… uh. Adam. And Kate, obviously. For Christmas, or… or whatever.” He braced himself like he was bracing for a punch.

Sam remained silent for a long moment. Then he said, “ _Okay? So?”_

“So…! So, I’m, I’m just… nervous,” Dean bit out. “I mean… I have no idea… ya know! I ain’t seen Dad in-…”

“ _Why do I give a shit what you do with Dad?”_ Sam’s voice was venomous, like a rattlesnake bite.

_There he is,_ Dean thought, and closed his eyes. “Ah, Sammy, c’mon,” he said. “I’m just tryin’ to tell you what’s goin’ on.”

“ _Whatever.”_

Dean sat back in the swivel chair. “I… he asks after you. All the time. Ya know? Every time he calls-…”

Sam scoffed. “ _And when was the last time he called?”_

Dean pressed his lips together. “I… dunno. It’s been a while. Uh… Kate invited us.”

“ _Oh-h-h,”_ Sam said, horribly sour. “ _Of course. Kate.”_

“What?”

“ _Didn’t call himself, did he. That’s typical. Classic Dad, have someone else do the work.”_

Dean took a slow breath. He would not take the bite. He would not do it. “We have a brother, Sammy,” Dean said. He would not get wrapped up in Sam’s bullshit. “You can have your issues with Dad, but Adam’s just a kid. He deserves a family. And I ain’t seen Dad in years. I couldn’t say no.”

Sam was breathing hard on the other end. “My _issues with Dad? Are you saying I’m the only one who has issues with Dad? After he left us in whatever ratfuck hotel so he could go on a bender whenever he wanted? After he nearly put you in the fucking hospital? After he, he_ abandoned _us so he could go back to not giving a shit about anyone but himself? After he showed up at my high school graduation and made a goddamn fool of himself? There’s a good load of goddamn reasons you haven’t seen him in so many fuckin’ years, Dean!”_

“You know it’s… fuck, Sam. It’s not that simple.” Fucking goddamn. Mediating a fight between Sam and Dad, and Dad wasn’t even there. “It’s… there’s…”

“ _Oh, fuck you, Dean. You know what? Do whatever the fuck you want. See Dad, don’t see Dad, I don’t care, and I don’t want to hear about it.”_ Sam paused. “ _And for the record, Cas is probably the best thing that has ever happened to your dumb ass. Try not to fuck that up. Okay?”_

He dialed off before Dean could say another word.

Dean sat there, shellshocked, his body frozen in place. He felt like he’d been slapped. He was so angry that he misdialed Sam’s number twice before he got the call through. It went directly to voicemail.

Sam’s voice, cool and professional, the opposite of the raging monster he’d just spoken with: “ _This is Sam Winchester with Johnston, Durban, and Sandover. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”_

Dean had to take a breath before he could let himself speak. “It’s me. Look,” he said, and stopped. He was so angry, but he knew he had to keep himself in check. “ _Look._ I know you have problems with Dad. I do, too. Don’t fuckin’ act like you think I don’t, because I know you’re smarter than that. But you don’t get to talk to me like that. All right? I’m havin’ a shit time with this right now, and I don’t need you treatin’ me like I’m some dumbshit when I’m tryin’ to talk to you. When I come to you for advice. I…” He took another breath. “I don’t want this to be some kinda contest over which of us has _more issues with Dad._ But, fine. I’ll do what I gotta do, and I’ll keep you out of it. So… will you please get your shit together and call me back?” 

He ended the call. Sam didn’t call back.

***

Dean had hoped for more from Sam. Advice, maybe. Support. Something like that. But, no… One mention of Dad, and Sam was eighteen again, red-faced, screaming at Dad in Bobby’s dining room while Dean tried to hold him back. Spilled beer, tomato sauce, Marlboro smoke. Sharp pain in his face. Sitting on the back stairs of Bobby’s house while Sam erupted. _I’m not goin’ back there ‘til he’s gone!_ he’d screamed, almost hoarse by that point.

The memory made Dean want to throw up. Made him want to crawl into bed and not get up again. He folded it up, and put it out of his mind.

Unfortunately, Dean was on his own with this. That was okay, thought. It was what he was used to.

Dean cooked dinner, and Cas got home late. After they ate, Cas took the dishes to the sink (even though Dean liked doing the dishes). He stood at the sink with his sleeves rolled up to this elbows, wrist-deep in dishwater. Dean could see steam rising from the tap as it ran, fogging the kitchen window.

He knew what he had to do. Dean walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around his chest.

“Oh.” Cas wrapped his wet fingers around one of his arms. “Hello, Dean,” he said, pleased.

“Cas.” Dean kissed the back of his neck, then his shoulder. “I’m sorry. About the cabin. I know you canceled the reservation.”

“Dean…” Cas tried to turn to look at him, but Dean kept his arms tight around him.

“Just… listen. I know I upset you. I shouldn’t have been so shitty. I know you were just tryin’ to do somethin’ nice. And I’m… I’m sorry that… my first move is to get mad at you. When you do stuff like that. I’m tryin’ to be better about it. I know I can be a dumbass sometimes. So… thank you for… for… ya know. All of it.”

Cas turned, and Dean let him. Cas’ hands were still wet when he took Dean’s face in them to kiss him. “Thank you. I was selfish. I should have known that it wasn’t the right time. And I shouldn’t have let you stew alone for so long.”

Dean dropped his head on to Cas’ shoulder and clung to him, rang his fingers over the slim scar on the back of Cas’ head. Cas was warm and solid, and held him tight.

“Don’t take yourself away like that again. Okay?” Dean mumbled.

“Never,” Cas whispered. He pushed his face into Dean’s shoulder. “Dean… I… I’m so sorry. Your arm… I…” His voice wobbled.

“Ah, Cas, it’s okay. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. Okay? You’re forgiven. I don’t want you feelin’ bad about it for another second.”

Cas held him even tighter. “Very well,” he said. And then he turned away, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, and Dean sat back down at the table.

Cas went back to the dishes, dropping a plate up in the drying rack.

“Did you get your Christmas shopping done yet?” he said, his voice brisk and business-like as he washed a mug.

Dean shook his head. “No. Was thinkin’ about goin’ to the mall this weekend. Gotta get gifts for… well. Ya know.”

Cas gave him a week smile over his shoulder. “It’s going to be a madhouse.”

“Yeah, well. That’s what I get for puttin’ it off.” Dean shrugged. “Come with me?”

“Of course,” Cas said, and went back to the dishes. Dean watched him for another minute, and then he stood up and went back up behind him, leaned against him. “You’re distracting me…” Cas murmured.

“Good.” Dean pushed cup he was washing out of his hand, let it thunk to the bottom of the sink, and moved Cas’ hands over to the hand soap. “C’mon…” Dean laughed in his ear. “Wash up.”

Cas chuckled, and washed his hands, and Dean turned him around and kissed him. Cas’ arms slung around his neck, and Dean dropped his hands to Cas’ hips and lifted him up. “ _Dean!”_ Cas said, and wrapped his legs around Dean’s waist.

“C’mere,” Dean growled. “Want you.” Cas clung on to him, laughing as Dean walked them back into the living room.

“Don’t throw your back out,” Cas said. Dean got them around to the living room, and he lowered them both down onto the couch. Cas got a leg under them, and turned them over so that Dean was on his back. Dean pulled Cas’ shirt out of his waistband, felt Cas’ hands undoing his belt. His hands delved into Dean’s jeans, cupping his cock through his underwear.

“Touch me,” Dean whispered, and kissed Cas’ throat. Cas’ hand slid into his briefs, and his fingers wrapped around Dean’s warming cock. Dean moaned quietly, and Cas dropped his mouth to Dean’s neck, grazed his teeth against his skin, making Dean gasp. “ _Yeah.”_

He shoved Cas’ boxers down so he could get ahold of Cas’ dick. Cas hummed, and rocked into Dean’s hand. Dean pushed his own briefs down, freed Cas’ cock from his underwear. Cas spit wetly into his hand, wet Dean’s cock with it.

“Hold me,” Dean murmured. “Hold me down.” Cas braced one hand on Dean’s shoulder, one hand on his hip, holding him down on the sofa, covering him entirely, and rutted against him, rocking their cocks together. Dean felt so good, almost lightheaded from pleasure. He shoved his hips up against Cas’, his cock straining, wanting more, but Cas held him down tighter. “Mmmh… yeah,” Dean breathed.

“You’re so hard already,” Cas said, his voice low and rough. “What’s go you so keyed up?”

“Need you,” Dean murmured. “Just need you. Cas.” He tried to lean up to kiss him, but Cas kept him against to sofa, and kissed him softly. “I’m not gonna break,” Dean whispered against his lips. “You can… I want it.” Cas watched him for a moment, then leaned down and kissed him hard. Dean eagerly opened his mouth, let Cas thrust his tongue inside, and he felt Cas’ hand moved from his hip to push his shirt up. Cas found his nipple with his fingers, and gave it a tight pinch. Dean’s entire body sparked. “ _Mmh!”_ Cas got his teeth around Dean’s bottom lip, bit him gently, and Dean grunted, pushing his hips up against Cas’, thrusting against him. “Fuck!” Cas leaned heavily against him, holding him down, and worked their cocks with his hand. He reached up with his free hand, and pinched his other nipple, hard, making Dean bow up.

His orgasm was sudden, almost catching him by surprise, his cock jerking between his stomach and Cas’ cock, and he came hard.

“ _Ah! Fuck! Fuck!”_ Dean bit out. Cas kissed him again, grazing his teeth on Dean’s lip without biting him. Dean’s hands went up to hold his shoulders, and he heard the distinctive wet sound, the sound of Cas jerking himself. “Fuck… Cas…” he said, looking down so he could see. Cas was pumping his cock quickly. “Fuckin’ cum on me, Castiel…”

“Ah! Mmh…” Cas came on Dean’s stomach, and he braced a hand on the armrest over Dean’s head, panting. His pretty, pink tongue went over his lips, and he leaned down to kiss Dean again, and then dropped to lay on his side beside him, wedged against the back of the couch.

Dean stared up at the ceiling fan, cum cooling on his stomach, his pants still half-down. _Finally,_ he thought.

“Don’t get cum on the sofa,” Cas murmured, and then he started to shake with laughter.

“Oh, jeez,” Dean grumbled. He reached behind him and pulled his tee-shirt off, then used it to wipe of his stomach. “There, princess. Satisfied?”

Cas was still laughing. “Yes,” he said, and took Dean’s tee-shirt to wipe himself off. “I’ll do some laundry.”

“Thanks.” Dean glanced over at the windows. “Should probably close the curtains.”

Instead of launching to his feet like Dean had expected, Cas laughed harder. He reached down and shuffled his pants and underwear back up over his hips. “Our neighbors must hate us.”

“Or love us,” Dean said, hitching up his briefs and jeans. Cas shook his head, and hooked his arm around Dean’s chest.

***

Castiel’s semester ended well. Most of his students finished with high grades, with only a few mediocre standouts. As the weather worsened, Dean’s garage got busier, with more fender-benders from inattentive drivers sliding on slick roads, more windshields chipped from gravel fly-ups, more scrapes and dings and scratches and dents.

Days later and Castiel felt, still, like the world’s biggest asshole. The entire mess only reaffirmed what he already knew. Dean was never malicious, only impulsive, his mouth moving faster than his brain. Castiel was the spiteful one, the calculating one. The one who tried to _hurt._ Castiel was not only furious with himself for the hissy-fit-silent-treatment he’d given Dean after he canceled the cabin, but also for… the other thing.

The one thing. The _one thing_ Dean didn’t want during sex. _Don’t try to put my arm behind my back._ How many times had Dean told him, early in their relationship, when sex was still new? In the beginning it made Castiel a little nervous. Dean sometimes seemed too keen to use sex in ways that unnerved Castiel. As an apology, as a way to make things up to him, doing things that he didn’t really seem to like just because Castiel liked them. But once they were more comfortable with each other, once they knew each other better, Castiel found that Dean was adventurous, and eager, and sexy, and giving in bed. They experimented a bit; Dean said several times, _I’ll try anything once._ Some things resulted in a quick _Never again._ When they’d played around with blindfolds, Dean had whipped his off after less than five minutes and said, _Fuck no, I hate it. No way, Cas._ When Castiel had rimmed him for the first time, Dean had cum so hard that he’d almost teared up. _You better fuckin’ plan to do that every day,_ he’d said, still clutching a pillow, slick and open. They’d talked about more intense things, maybe taking it further. Castiel had brought up having a safeword, which Dean had turned down. _If I say stop, you’d better just stop. I don’t fuck around like that._

The only thing that he’d never allowed Castiel to approach – _Don’t try to put my arm behind my back._

“Can I ask why?” Castiel had said, five or six years ago, while they were lying in bed, touching and kissing and moving toward the main event. Before they really got down to it, Dean would look him in the eye and say the same thing each time.

“Because I don’t. Like it,” Dean said firmly, almost heatedly, holding Castiel’s gaze. That look said, _Don’t ask._

Castiel tried to take it in stride. “All right. I understand.”

“That’s not gonna be a problem, is it?” Dean said, like he was looking for a fight.

Castiel had drawn back, surprised. “Of course not,” he said.

Dean softened. “Good.” Then he slung his bare leg over Castiel’s hip, and said, “C’mon. You’d better hustle up, or I’m gonna be late for work.”

He’d stopped saying it soon after that, maybe didn’t feel like he needed to anymore. He finally told Cas why, what happened, years later while Cas laid beside him in bed with stitches in the back of his head.

Castiel wanted to cut his own hands off. Apparently, Dean _did_ need to keep telling him. He was a real piece of work. 

He’d been hurt and angry when Dean rejected his plans for the cabin. Didn’t he deserve a vacation? A _real_ vacation? Didn’t they both? Wasn’t Castiel worried about meeting Dean’s father, just as Dean was worried about seeing him again? _Why are we even going?_ The question boiled inside of him, every time he saw Dean sitting hangdog on the couch. Castiel wanted to scream it at him. _If the idea of this is making you so miserable, why are we even going?_

So, he turned to stone instead. And then when Dean finally broke – that’s what it felt like, like he had broken down completely – Castiel managed to fuck it up entirely.

And he knew he was doing too much. Being too nice, being weird, but he couldn’t stop himself. Every time he saw Dean, he would get a horrible stab of guilt, would feel a crazy urge to make it up to him. Even as they went to sleep, he would still reach out for him.

“Okay?” Castiel would murmur in Dean’s ear, before giving him a soft kiss.

“I’m _fine,_ Cas. Shit,” Dean said, to some variation. He would roll his eyes, and act like he was brushing it off, but Castiel could see that he was secretly pleased, could feel him curl closer to Castiel in the dark. They slept close, until Dean would inevitably overheat around three or four AM and roll away, kicking off the blankets.

And then Dean wrapped his arms around him and said almost exactly what he needed to hear. _I’m sorry and you’re sorry. We don’t have to keep apologizing to each other. I want to be back to normal._

Sometimes, Dean got it exactly right.

***

Dean’s eyes were fixed on his vile pro-wrestling, working his way through a grilled cheese sandwich. Castiel walked in front of the TV and crossed his arms.

Dean looked up at him. “What?”

“We’re leaving in four days,” Castiel said. Dean winced.

“Shit.”

“We can’t put this off anymore. If we don’t get this done now, we never will.”

Dean groaned dramatically, dropping his head against the back of the couch. “Aright. Aright.” He picked up the remains of his sandwich and folded it into his mouth, then got to his feet. “’Et’s ooh iht.”

It was mixed outside, raining and snowing at once, and the roads were slick. Traffic was terrible, of course, the roads crammed with cars like too many teeth in one mouth. The mall parking lot was so full that Castiel almost gave up and told Dean to take him home. They finally found a spot at the furthest edge of the parking lot, and had to dodge inattentive drivers all the way up to the front doors.

“Fuckin’ goddamn!” Dean announced, as they walked through the sliding doors of the department store, shaking water and snow off of his coat. The hot, moist air of the store wrapped around them like a damp blanket, and Castiel pulled his own coat off. He followed Dean through the crowded store, around clothing racks and shoe displays, until they reached the mall’s main thoroughfare. Christmas music was blasting over the speakers, a pop singer’s heinous rendition of “Away in a Manger,” and people were hustling and moving like the world was ending.

“Where to first?” Castiel said, looking around. He had no idea what to get any of them, hadn’t put an ounce of thought into it, and wasn’t even sure where to start.

“Toy store?” Dean said, pointing to the glowing shop on the other end of the mall. It looked swollen with people, absolutely jam-packed. “Find somethin’ for Adam?”

Castiel grit his teeth. “All right.”

The toy store was filled with screaming children, and very harassed-looking adults, digging through the dregs of the remaining toys. Castiel picked his way through the crowd, cringing. There was a small shelf of children’s books, off in an abandoned, dusty-looking corner, which looked considerably less-picked-over. Castiel crouched down, scanning the titles, and selected one.

_Abner Abraham and the Search for the Secret Crystal – ages 6-10._ Castiel thought, _Perfect_.

Dean walked up behind him, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Every single one of these little shits looks like they got the flu,” he groused. “What’d you get?” Castiel held up his selection, and Dean rolled his eyes. “A _book?_ You want him to hate you?”

Castiel scowled. “And what did _you_ get?”

“Um.” Dean hesitated, and held up a kid’s-sized baseball glove, and a pristine, white baseball. “I thought… I mean, I got one for Christmas once when I was a kid. I… what do you think?”

Castiel smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.” He straightened up a little. “Much better than a videogame, or something.”

They paid (after a thirty-minute wait in the curly-cueing line), and left crammed store, back to the crowded, sweaty mall.

Castiel knew little nothing about Kate and John. He knew that Kate was a nurse, and most of the nurses he knew complained endlessly about dry hands from constant hand-washing at their respective hospitals. He found a high-quality, scent-free lotion at a beauty supply store. Dean selected a soft, red wool scarf. Castiel would have preferred to buy John nothing, but he relented and found some wool socks.

Dean looked up a big box sporting goods store, one that had a store in Kansas City and an outlet near Windom, and bought John a gift card. Castiel couldn’t blame him for going the easier, gift-card route. What did you buy for someone you hadn’t seen in a decade?

“Let’s go the hell home,” Dean said, jamming the gift card into his wallet. Castiel couldn’t agree more.

***

Dean found an old shoebox in the closet under the stairs, and fit the ball and baseball glove into it. He was on the floor in the office, wrapping the box in the macho-est wrapping paper he could find (plain green – still technically Christmas-themed), when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He set the scotch tape on the floor, and looked at the screen.

_Sam calling…_

Dean took a steady breath, and answered the call. “Hey, Sam.”

“ _Hey.”_ Sam’s voice was quiet.

Dean waited a moment, and then said, “Look…”

“ _Dean, I’m sorry,”_ Sam said quickly, in a rush. “ _I totally… I was a dick. I’m sorry.”_

Dean paused, disarmed. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t contrition. “Oh. Well… okay. Um. Thanks.”

“ _I didn’t mean to… I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that. I just…”_ Sam grunted, and Dean could practically see him, running a hand through too-long hair, brow furrowed. “ _Whenever… Whenever someone brings up Dad. It’s like I just… see red. I dunno. I know I can… get… a little irrational. But… I don’t understand why you’re so intent on bringing him back into our lives. Into_ my _life.”_

Dean moved off of his knees, sitting back on the ground with his back to the desk. “Sammy-…”

“ _I mean, Jesus, Dean. Did you forget what he did to you? He almost fucking killed you.”_

“He did not almost kill me.” It was like a merry-go-round with Sam, every time they talked about Dad, the laundry list of Dad’s atrocities, ready for recitation.

Sam continued, undeterred. “ _I mean… shit! Do you remember what happened at my graduation? It’s like you forget this shit, like you, you compartmentalize, and, and put it away so it doesn’t matter!”_

“It was the day after…” Dean mumbled.

Sam sighed. Dean could tell he was trying to keep his anger on a tight leash. “ _Well, I can’t forget. I can’t even… it’s like it’s burned into my fuckin’ brain forever. All of it. And I do not understand how you can forgive him. How you can even speak to the man.”_

Dean heard his father’s voice in his ear, suddenly, clear as a bell. _You left your brother alone to, what? Go play grab-ass with your faggot boyfriend?_ Like a punch in the gut.

That day, the day Cas told him that Kate had called, everything came screaming back. All he’d wanted to do was quiet it, block it out, drink himself into a coma. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe he was too forgiving. Compartmentalizing. Maybe he should be angrier.

Dean looked at the watch on his wrist, remembering the feel of it being fastened around his wrist. His father’s voice again. _A man needs a watch._

Tears were in his eyes, shocking him. He wiped them away, and leaned his head back against the desk. “Because he’s.” His voice broke, and he swallowed. “He’s still our dad, Sammy.” He shut his eyes, and sniffed hard, furious with himself.

“ _Ah, Dean…”_ Sam said. “ _I’m… I didn’t mean to…”_

“People have forgiven me,” Dean said. “For the stupid shit I’ve done. Bobby. You. Cas has forgiven me for more than you’d believe. I just. Doesn’t he deserve that? A chance? Wouldn’t you give me a chance?”

Sam sighed quietly.

“Maybe what he’s done is unforgivable. I dunno. I’m not askin’ you to come with me,” Dean said. “I just… I just need to know you have my back on this. _You._ I need _you_ to have my back.”

“ _Dean, I… fuck. Of course, I do,”_ Sam said. “ _I had your back from the day I was born. Jerk.”_

Surprised, Dean felt a small laugh bubble out of him, felt like a sail that finally caught a breeze. “Bitch,” he mumbled.

“ _I… get it. Okay? I get you. I don’t… like it. But… do what you need to do.”_ He paused. “ _Just… be careful. Okay?”_

“Okay, Sammy.”

Sam was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “ _So… what’s up with you and Cas? Are you guys… aright?”_

Dean felt himself smile a little. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re, uh… actually great,” he said. He remembered, the horrible, weird place he’d been in when he’d called Sam the week before, and it almost made him feel even better about where they were now. “Shit. It’s been like night and day.”

_“What happened? You take my advice and apologize?”_ Sam said.

“Yeah, pretty much. I apologized, he apologized, and then… dot dot dot…” Dean grinned.

“ _Oh, Jesus.”_

Dean huffed out a laugh. “Did you get my package?”

“ _Yeah! Can we open it, or should we wait?”_

“Go ahead and open it. There’s wrapped stuff inside.”

Dean had gotten Sam a dumb gift – a Gold State Warriors tee-shirt – and a real gift – an old, antique-y, turn-of-the-century law book he’d found at a second-hand bookstore. Cas had selected a pair of tasteful gold stud earrings for Jess.

“ _I wanted to tell you… I’m, uh. Heh. Hang on.”_ Dean heard the sound of movement, a door closing. Quietly, Sam said, “ _I’m gonna propose to Jess on Christmas morning.”_

Dean felt his mouth open in shock. “You’re… _what?”_

“ _Yeah. I was gonna tell you before, but… well. Ya know. I actually was going to on her birthday, but I, uh…”_ He laughed quietly. “ _I chickened out. And then I was thinking New Year’s Eve, but… why am I waiting? What the hell’s the point? We’re both ready.”_

“Sammy… that’s… _great._ That’s… I’m so happy for you.” Dean practically felt himself glow with pride, almost felt choked up again. “Awesome. That’s awesome.” He felt something grow in him, some kind of steel, felt like he could stand up ten feet tall. His brother, smart, successful, accomplished, going to be married. He was really doing it. “Hey, I’m invited to the wedding, right?”

Sam let out a nervous laugh. _“Asshole! You’re gonna be my best man, obviously!”_

Dean felt his face warm. “Really?”

“ _Oh, for… yes! Of course! Jesus, man,”_ Sam said. “ _There’s no one else in the world I’d rather have stand up there with me.”_

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“ _Well, don’t get too excited yet. She’s still gotta say yes.”_

Dean shook his head, smiling. “She will.”

They ended the call, and Dean stood up and stretched, stiff from sitting on the floor. He walked over the tall windows and looked out at the yard. It was cold again, snowing a little, the sky a bright white-grey. In two days, they would be in Windom. Dean hadn’t heard from his dad, had confirmed with Kate, who’d said John was ‘so excited’ to see him, but was working a lot and probably just hadn’t had time to call. Dean didn’t know what to think, but it was too late to turn back now.

Sam could do it. Sam could do anything. He’d forged the life he wanted, he’d never stopped, never given up, not for a second.

Sam could do anything, and so could Dean. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Fighting, consent issues, Dean and Cas have consensual rough sex in a bad headspace, some past homophobia and implied child abuse remembered.


	6. what happened.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Great and terrible things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the radio silence. Real life got in the way, and I struggled with some writer's block this last month. But here is another Big Boi chapter to make up for it. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos. It really keeps me going when the writing gets difficult. I love you all! 
> 
> MIND THE TRIGGER WARNINGS AT THE END. 
> 
> XOXO,  
> Rosemary

_I love the open road  
_ _And all that it suggests  
_ _Wheelwagon dust  
_ _Weeds and infidelities and  
_ _Always swore our love  
_ _Never questioned why_  
_In a wooden house  
_ _Immovable and silent_

**19 years ago.**

The streetlights were a sickly yellow, streaming through the broken slats in the blinds to paint lines on the ceiling. Dean was lying in bed, in their apartment in Oregon, thinking about what he wanted for his upcoming fourteenth birthday. A new pocket knife, maybe. Or some new headphones. He’d start dropping hints for Dad tomorrow, otherwise he’d probably get nothing. Or Dad would get pissed at him for not reminding him.

Dean rolled over and stared at the wall. Dad still wasn’t home. He had a tendency to become lost in whatever pool or poker game he was hustling, but when he went out, he was usually back home by the time the bars closed. But now it was past three in the morning, and Dean was still awake, listening for the Impala’s rumble, for the front door to open, for the mattress in the other room to creak.

Sam rolled over, snuffling quietly in his sleep.

Dean sat up in bed, and looked out the window at the parking lot. Beyond the streetlights that illuminated the lot was the road, and then the path into blackness, to the boardwalk, and the beach. Dean tried to imagine he could hear the ocean rolling up on the shore, seabirds, the wind through the sawgrass. 

Abruptly, he heard the Impala’s engine, growling up the street. He let out a breath, and flopped back down on the bed.

“Thank God,” he whispered, and rolled over onto his side. He’d wait for the front door to open and shut, and he’d be able to finally fall asleep.

The Impala rolled into the lot, into one of the spaces outside. The engine idled for a minute, and then quieted. Dean waited and waited, and then he heard the key in the lock, the front door swing open, and then shut.

And then the hard _thump_ of Dad tripping and falling on the ground.

“Shit.” Dean crawled out of bed, and hurried over to their open bedroom door. He heard Sam get out of bed behind him, and he grasped for the light switch on the wall. The living room light flickered a few times, then stayed lit. Dad was sprawled out on the carpet, on his stomach, slowly trying to climb to his feet.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Dad slurred out, struggling to his hands and knees. He had a red mark on his chin from the carpet, and his clothes were messy and wrinkled.

“Jesus,” Sam said. “Should we get him up?”

Dean looked at him. He was wearing his thermal pants and one of Dean’s old tee-shirts. “Sammy, go back to bed.”

Sam huffed. “I can help-…!”

“ _Go!”_ Dean snapped, pointing toward their bedroom, leaving no room for debate. Sam scowled, then turned on his heel and stomped back into their room. He slammed the door behind him.

“ _Fuck!”_ Dad growled, wincing at the sound.

“C’mon, Dad.” Dean dropped to one knee beside his father, and slung one of his arms around his shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Mmrrhh… bathroom…” Dad mumbled.

“Need the toilet?” Dean said. “Aright, Dad? Needta piss?”

Dad grunted.

“Here, lean on me. C’mon. Lean on me and stand on up.” Dad leaned heavily on his shoulders, got his feet under him, and stood up straight. It was awkward – Dean was still a solid head and shoulders shorter than his father. Dean walked them over to the cramped bathroom, and flipped on the light. The fan stuttered on and started to whir.

Dad grabbed the toilet lid, and thankfully had the presence of mind to pull the lid up before he started to vomit. Dean grimaced, turning his face away. He hated the smell of puke, hated seeing it, hated hearing it. Dad lurched down to his knees and continued to heave.

Between bouts of vomit, he realized that Dad was starting to talk, gibbering almost nonsense. “I had her…” he got out, bracing his hands on the toilet bowl. “I had her in my arms… _she was right there… I couldn’t help her, and she was right there…”_

He was talking about Mom, Dean realized, his heart stuttering in his chest.

“Dad…” he said, at an utter loss. “It’s… it’s okay, Dad. Everything’s okay.”

“Oh, God, Mary…” Dad got out. Horribly, he sounded like he was starting to cry.

“Dad!” Dean said. He held Dad’s shoulders, wished he could get closer, but the puke smelled so bad – stomach acid, beer, liquor. Dad leaned over and vomited more. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna get ya some water,” Dean said. He left Dad in the bathroom, went into the tiny kitchen and filled a plastic cup from the tap, then hurried back into the bathroom. Dad had laid down on the bathroom rug on his side, his face toward the toilet, eyes shut.

“Ah, Dad…” Dean mumbled. He set the cup on the counter beside the sink, then held his breath and flushed the toilet. He kneeled down behind Dad, and laid a hand on his side. “C’mon, ya can’t sleep in here.” Dad didn’t respond, and Dean shook his shoulder gently. “Dad? Dad!” 

Dad’s hand moved so quickly that Dean almost pulled away, afraid he might be angry. But Dad just touched his arm, and then grabbed his hand and squeezed it. 

“I’m aright, Dean,” he said, his voice rough and a little weak. “Got it all out.”

Dean sat down, kept his hand in his father’s. “Can ya get up? Can we get to bed?”

“Minute,” Dad said, and withdrew his hand.

Dean didn’t want to leave him alone, curled up on the bathroom floor, so he sat back against the side of the mildewy tub to wait. It was cold, so he pulled one of the towels off the rack, and draped it over himself and Dad’s shoulders.

Dean jolted awake an hour later, sore and shivering from dozing off on the floor. He sat up, and his father stirred beside him.

“Dad,” Dean said, and shook his shoulder gently. “Come on. It’s freezin’. Let’s go to bed.”

Dad grunted, and sat up slowly, looking bleary and confused. “Dean? What the hell…?”

“It’s okay, Dad. C’mon, now.” Dean pulled his father to his feet, and led him slowly back into his bedroom. Dean helped him sit on the edge of the bed.

Without warning, Dad pulled him into a hug. Dean tensed, shocked, not sure what to do. His arms felt like weights, nerveless and stuck to his sides.

“Love you so much,” Dad said. His voice was wet, breath smelling like liquor and puke. “You boys. You’re all I’ve got.”

“Dad…”

“Where’s Sammy? Wanna see ‘im…”

“Sam’s in bed, Dad. It’s four in the morning.”

“You take care ‘f ‘im. Watch out for ‘im?” he slurred.

“’Course I do. Always.” Dean wrapped his arms around his father to hug him back.

“I’m sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry…” Dad rumbled, almost sobbing again.

_He’s just drunk,_ Dean thought, swallowing around the lump in his throat. _He’s just drunk._

“It’s okay, Dad, everything’s okay. Just lay down. C’mon. Lay on down, now.” Dean urged Dad down into the bed, still fully dressed. He pulled off Dad’s boots, and then draped the blankets over him. Dad’s eyes were already closed.

Exhausted, Dean dragged himself back to bed. Sam was asleep, oblivious to the madness that had taken place only one room away, and Dean climbed into bed and listened to him breathe.

***

**Three years ago.**

It wasn’t quite seven in the evening, but the late September sky was already getting dark, the color of a fresh bruise. They had finished having sex, and Dean had showered and was starting to redress. Cas sat up in bed, frowning.

“Where are you going?” he said.

Dean pulled his jeans on. “Gotta go home tonight. I got a ton of laundry to do, and dishes pilin’ up.”

Cas ran a hand through his hair. “You know you can do your laundry here.” 

_I’m not some mooch,_ Dean thought with a frown. “I’m at the garage early tomorrow, anyway.” He buckled his belt. “My place is closer.” 

Cas sat back against the pillows and crossed his arms. He was clearly miffed, but he tried to smile. “So, you’re just going to fuck me and run?”

“Uh… you fucked me, first of all,” Dean said, searching for his socks. He found one curled in the edge of the blankets, and pulled it on. “And second of all… I also ate your food.” He looked at Cas with a grin, but Cas wasn’t smiling. “Oh, come on. What?”

Cas shook his head and looked away. “Nothing.”

Dean pulled his other sock on. “What?” he said again. “What is it?”

Cas pulled the blankets back up over his chest, and turned on his side to face the window. Dean watched him for a moment, then crawled back onto the bed on top of the blankets, and wrapped his arm around Cas from behind.

“You pissed at me? What’s goin’ on?”

Cas shook his head. “No. I’m not.”

“Then…?”

Cas sighed quietly. “I asked you to move in four months ago.”

Dean’s body prickled, his arm tightening around Cas reflexively. “Yeah?” he said. “And? You know my lease ain’t up until January.”

“ _And,_ ” Cas said, still facing firmly away. “You’ve hardly mentioned it. You haven’t brought it up, you haven’t moved anything in. You don’t even stay here as often as you used to. You don’t seem…” He shook his head, and pulled the blankets up over his bare shoulder.

“What?” Dean shook him a little.

“I don’t know,” Cas said quietly. “I was so happy when you said yes. I never thought… I… I suppose I just hoped you’d be more… excited.”

Dean’s voice left him for a moment. “I… Cas!” he said. “I am excited. And I _have_ moved stuff in. I got that whole drawer filled!”

“With some old tee-shirts. Extra underwear.” Cas shook his head. “Dean… Are you having second thoughts? You do want to live here, right?”

“Cas!” Dean was shocked. “Of course, I do. Jesus, what’s goin’ on with you? Your hormones actin’ up or somethin’?”

Cas turned to stare at him over his shoulder.

Dean bit his lip. “I… sorry. That was-…” Cas shoved Dean’s arm off of him, pushed the blankets off of himself and stood up. “Ah, Cas, c’mon…” Cas ignored him. He walked to the bathroom naked, and slammed the door behind him.

Dean laid back on the bed, and watched the ceiling fan. “Fuck.” He waited a moment, until he heard the shower start, and then he got up and left.

***

Dean washed two loads of laundry at the nearby 24-hour laundromat, and he lugged it up the stairs to his apartment, piled in the laundry basket. He dumped the clothes out on the bed and started to fold them, still feeling like a jackass.

Dean had been overjoyed when Cas asked him to move in. But over the last few months, the joy was overwhelmed with nerves. He should have just moved in right away, subletted or something – instead, he allowed himself to overthink it. And maybe he was dragging his feet. Maybe he was having second thoughts. Some hesitation. The thought of living in the same house as his lover, having nowhere to run if things turned sour… yeah. It did give him some second thoughts. He and Cas had a tendency to bicker, usually when Dean said something stupid and pissed him off (like today, perfect example, goddammit), but they rarely had full-on fights. But when they did, it got ugly. Dean remembered once, early in their coupling, telling Cas that he made him nervous sometimes. It was still true.

Dean flopped back on his bed, and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling. He picked up his phone, and opened a new text.

_To Cas: Sorry. I was a dick._

And then, a minute later: _To Cas: Love u_

He blushed, and rested his phone on his stomach.

Dean hadn’t heard from Bobby since he’d walked away on the street in Palo Alto. He’d given Bobby space, like he wanted. “ _I just need some time with this.”_ Four months, no calls. Dean hadn’t gone more than a few weeks without speaking to Bobby in longer than he could remember.

“ _You can always call me, Dean. Always,”_ he’d said, all those years ago, when Dean was thirteen, sitting on the bedroom floor in an apartment in Oregon.

Dean kept his eyes on the cracked ceiling, drumming his fingers on the screen of his phone. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, Dean dialed the number he’d known by heart since he was six years old.

The phone rang five times. Then, a gruff voice: “ _You’ve reached Singer Auto Salvage. Leave a message.”_

“Hey, Bobby. It’s, uh. It’s Dean.” Dean paused, half-hoping Bobby might be around, hovering somewhere on the other end of the line. Screening his calls, maybe. It was pretty late. “I, uh. Guess ya must be at Rufus’, or at the Roadhouse or somethin’. I… I wanted to call… and… uh…” He swallowed. “Well. Guess I just miss ya, is all. Ain’t talked to ya in… a while. I got some stuff that I wanna talk to you about, um, about what’s been goin’ on. So… gimme a call when you, uh. When you can. Uh… well…” He waited, thnking, _pick up, pick up, pick up,_ and then he started to panic. Maybe he shouldn’t have called. Should have waited for Bobby to reach out to him. But what if Bobby never did? He floundered for a moment, and then said, “I, I’m sorry. I dunno, maybe I shouldn’t have called. I… sorry.” He ended the call, and shook his head.

Fucking up twice in one day. Forcing his shit on to other people, when he should just keep his mouth shut.

Dean dragged himself off of the bed, put away his laundry, wash the three dishes that were in the sink. He was undressing for bed when the phone rang. Dean shoved his legs into his sweatpants, expecting to see Cas’ name on the screen, maybe calling to kick his ass some more, and grabbed the phone off of its charger.

_Bobby calling…_

Dean sucked in a breath, surprised. He fumbled with the phone, answering quickly.

“Hey, Bobby,” he said, forcing his voice to come out even.

“ _Dean,”_ Bobby said. His voice was like a warm blanket. “ _How are ya?”_

“I’m. I’m good,” Dean said. He swallowed hard, and forced himself to lighten his tone. “How ya been, old man?” he said, and sank down to sit on the bed.

Bobby laughed quietly. “ _Just fine. Can’t complain.”_

They lapsed into a stiff silence, and Dean’s stomach felt like it was curdling.

“Um…” The sound bubbled out of him quietly. He could feel it again, that horrible tension, an awkwardness that had never been there before. It was awful.

“ _Dean, listen,”_ Bobby said, and Dean closed his mouth. “ _I, uh… well…”_ Bobby huffed out a sigh. “ _Ah, hell. Dean, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made such a fuss.”_

Dean frowned. “What the hell are ya talkin’ about?”

“ _About… you. And… Cas.”_

Dean felt his lips curl in a smile. “That was a fuss? I’d hate to see you throw a real fit.”

Bobby grunted. “ _Yeah, well. I was bein’ a real horse’s ass.”_

“Nah, Bobby. You really weren’t. It’s fine. Just…” Dean took a slow breath. “I’m just glad we’re talkin’ now.”

Bobby was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “ _There was no reason for it. You… I know that you’ve had some… some times when you’ve struggled.”_ Dean’s face warmed. _“And the fact that you found someone who you care about. Someone kind. That’s all that shoulda mattered. You…”_ Bobby let out a slow breath, and suddenly his voice had a slight tremble to it. _“You’re the most important thing in the world to me. You and Sam. No matter what you do, or who you love. Okay?”_

Dean swallowed hard. “Okay, Bobby,” he said.

“ _Okay.”_ Bobby cleared his throat hard, and Dean heard him take a sip of something. “ _Anyway. What’s goin’ on?”_

“Oh. Well.” Dean laid back on the bed to stare at the ceiling again. “Cas, uh. He asked me to move in with him.”

Bobby took a quiet breath, and said, “ _Well. That’s good, innit?”_

“Yeah. ‘Course.” Dean shut his eyes. “Thing is, he asked me in June. I told him I wanted to, but… I haven’t yet. I mean, I can’t break my lease, but… I… he thinks I’m draggin’ ass on purpose, I think.”

“ _Are ya?”_ Bobby said, no bullshit. 

“I. I dunno,” Dean said, honestly as he could. “Maybe.”

“ _Why?”_

“Just… worried.” Dean felt thirteen years old, biting out his anxieties on the phone to Bobby once again.

“ _What’re ya worried about?”_

Dean pressed his lips together. “Worried that… if I move in, he’s gonna…” He took a slow breath. “He’s gonna realize I’m nuts. Ya know? That I’m not… that I’m different, maybe, then he thought. I dunno.” 

“ _Why the hell would ya think somethin’ like that?”_

“Because…” Dean swallowed. “When you… I can always leave. Ya know? I can always go home, if we’re, if we’re pissin’ each other off, or if we’re fighting. I always have somewhere to go so we can cool it. But if we’re livin’ together, I…”

“ _Well, hell, boy! Ya fightin’ so much that you need somewhere else to go?”_

“No! No, not… no.” Dean rested his forehead in his hand. “Ya know how when you spend a ton of time with someone, eventually you kinda get sick of ‘em? Like, everything they do makes you angry? Even the way they chew?” He let out a quiet laugh. “What if he gets sick of me? What if…?”

_What if I ruin it?_ he thought. 

“ _Jesus. You just described marriage, ya know that?”_ Dean felt more heat rush into his face. “ _Dean… I’m not sure what to tell you. Do ya think y’all can stay together without livin’ together?”_

Dean considered it. “I dunno. I… Cas would be… he’d be hurt by that. If we didn’t.”

“ _Ya love this boy?”_

The heat in his face was searing. “Yessir.”

“ _How long y’all been together?”_

“Um… three years, about.”

“ _Oh, for the love a’ God. Three years? It ain’t like you’ve only known him six months. Do ya really think he’s gonna throw you out ‘cuz of the way you chew?”_

Dean felt himself smile. “Nah.”

“ _Then move in with him if you want! Shit!”_ Bobby took another sip. “ _It’s not like you’re gonna be chained to the radiator. If it ain’t workin’ in a few months, move out.”_

“I dunno. It’s… gonna be weird. Livin’ in a house again. Someone else’s house.” A car drove by outside, lights slipping through the blinds to line the walls. “I don’t… wanna feel like I’m livin’ off him. I don’t want _him_ to feel like that, either. Like I’m livin’ off him.”

“ _He asked you, right? He wants you there?”_

Dean blew out a breath between his pursed lips. “Yeah.”

_“Aright. So… what the hell are ya worried about, exactly?”_

“Ah, jeez.” Dean sat up. “Okay, okay. I get ya.”

“ _It’ll be fine,”_ Bobby said. _“Whatever happens. I think you can handle it.”_

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I hope so.”

When he ended his call with Bobby, he saw he had a new message from Cas.

_From Cas: I apologize for being mopey. You can take your time moving in. I want you here when you’re ready. And I love you, too._

Dean smiled, feeling warmth in his chest. He plugged his phone back in, and stood up to dig out his duffel.

***

Castiel was on the sofa when Dean keyed in the next evening, laptop open on the coffee table, papers in his lap, music playing. The scene was so familiar, it almost stung.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, without glancing up.

“Hey.” Dean dropped the duffel on the ground, and picked up the laundry basket, bringing it in with him. Cas looked up at the sound. 

“Is…?” Cas saw the duffel bag, the basket full of stuff. “Well. Hello,” he said again. “What’s all that?”

Dean kicked the duffel out of the way, and then nudged the door shut with his foot. “Clothes… mostly summer stuff. And this,” he said, and shook the basket, “is a coupla books, movies, some shoes, a much nicer skillet than yours, and the blender that I never use.” Dean grinned at him. “Movin’ some stuff in.”

Cas smiled. “I see.”

“Where should I dump it?”

“Ah.” Cas stood, and walked over to pick up his duffel bag. “Summer stuff?”

“Yeah.” Dean set the laundry basket down. “It’s gettin’ pretty cold, don’t think I’ll be needin’ ‘em for a while.”

“I store mine in the spare room upstairs.”

“Sounds good.” Dean grabbed the blender and the pan, and said, “I’m gonna put these in the kitchen.” He felt Cas eyes on him as he left the room.

***

Dean moved in a load at a time over the next few months. He didn’t have many things, so by the time he made the official move in late December, hardly anything was left in the studio except for some odds and ends, and his furniture. Dean and his friend Charlie loaded his bed, and his spindly chairs, little formica table, the small dresser, and the patched loveseat into a rented trailer, and trundled it all off to a second-hand store (Dean’s TV had been set up in Castiel’s bedroom, much to his distaste). Castiel stayed behind in the studio to start to clean, and it was so small that the three of them spent less than an hour sweeping and wiping everything down.

“I’ve been here, like, four years,” Dean said, as he wiped down the counters. “I’m not getting a cent back on the deposit no matter how nice we clean it up.”

“Well,” Charlie said, wiping off the windowsill. “Why do any of it, then?”

“Because we aren’t barbarians,” Castiel said. He took a moment to look around the apartment where he’d spent so little time, over the cracked ceiling, the warped, old floor, the broken blinds. “Though I do agree… you probably won’t get anything back.”

“Yeah. Fuck it.” Dean wrung the dish out in the sink. “Let’s go.”

They drove his few remaining possessions back to Castiel’s house, stopping briefly at the landlord’s office to drop the keys off.

“Christ on sale!” Charlie groused, as she climbed out of her tiny, yellow Bug, holding the last two pans from Dean’s cupboards. “Couldn’t you guys have done this in the spring?” She tightened her coat around her frame and shivered. It was clear out, and bitter cold, still frosted-over in mid-afternoon.

“Quit bitchin’,” Dean said, hefting his last few books into his arms. “You’re gettin’ dinner out of it.”

“I better be.” Charlie nudged him with her elbow, and Dean nudged her back, grinning.

Castiel unlocked the front door, and led them inside. Charlie brushed past him, looking around.

“Wo-o-ow!” she said, turning a full circle. “Nice place, Cas! Hey, how come we never hang out here, huh?”

Castiel shut the front door. It wasn’t _that_ nice.

Dean snorted, dropping his books in the large pile by the shelf. He’d been setting his books there over the time he’d been moving stuff in, since the shelf was already full. “Ya know there’s no Playstation here, right? You’d be bored to tears.” 

Castiel watched him, feeling something like joy swelling in his chest. Finally, finally, Dean had moved in. He didn’t think he could be happier.

Charlie continued on into the kitchen, thunking the pans onto the table. “Ooh, dope sunroom!” she said, looking in to the office. She peered down at the mess of boxes and files, and said, “Shit, who’s the slob?”

Castiel felt his mouth twist. “That would be me.”

“Oh.” Charlie looked back at him, grimacing. “Sorry. Just kidding. You should see our office at home, it’s a real sty.”

Dean was crouched at the bookshelf, scanning the shelves, frowning. Charlie perched on the sofa on her knees, watching him.

“I think you might be outta room, there, buddy,” she said.

Castiel watched Dean paw through the pile of his books. “I really don’t wanna get rid of these,” he mumbled, picking up a copy of _Cat’s Cradle_ in one hand, and _The Shining_ in the other.

“Don’t get rid of them,” Castiel insisted. The thought appalled him – get rid of the _books?_ “We’ll get another shelf if we have to.”

Dean looked over his shoulder at him. “Not a lot of space in here for one.”

“Then we’ll…” Castiel shrugged. “Get rid of the TV.”

Dean snorted. “I don’t think so.”

“Might be able to fit a shelf in that back office,” Charlie said.

“That’s actually not a bad idea.” Dean stood up. “Mind if we go clear some space back there?”

“No.” Castiel waved a hand. “Please, do.”

Dean and Charlie went back into the office, and Castiel approached the bookshelf to try to make some room. He leaned close to examine the books, frowning. Surely, they could squeeze something in. After a moment of review, he saw two books on the middle shelf that he realized were textbooks from when he was in grad school. Castiel laughed quietly to himself – why on earth did he still have those? – and pulled the books off the shelf, then set a handful of Dean’s books in their place.

His cell phone started buzzing where he’d dropped it on the coffee table, and he walked over to pick it up.

_Balthazar calling…_

Castiel answered. “Hello, Balthazar.”

“ _Hello-o-o!”_ Balthazar said, cheerfully. “ _How are you, darling? Fancy a drink?”_

“I’m afraid I can’t today,” Castiel said. “We just moved Dean in.”

“ _Oh… moved Dean in?”_ Balthazar said, after a pause. “ _As in… In? To your house?”_

“Yes.”

“ _Huh… you didn’t mention you two were moving in,”_ he said.

Castiel frowned, and sank down on the sofa. “I told you I wanted him to move in with me.”

“ _I know, you did. I guess I didn’t realize it would happen so quickly.”_

“I asked him six months ago,” Castiel scoffed. He sat back against the cushions, and crossed his legs. “Problem?”

“ _Of course not! No, no. Just…”_ Balthazar went quiet again, and Castiel let him sit in the silence. “ _Castiel… are you sure about this?”_

Castiel remembered sitting beside Dean in the California airport, Dean’s voice low and quiet, almost shy: _You sure?_ He’d said it then, and he could say it now with certainty: He’d truly never been surer of anything.

“Yes. I am.” Castiel was growing tired of Balthazar and Raphael’s reticence toward Dean. Castiel wasn’t blind; he knew they had a certain disregard for Dean, for his lack of ‘class’ as they saw it. It irked Castiel insensibly, reminded him of his parents’ attitudes when he was growing up. And he knew Dean could feel it, too. “We’ve been together three years. I’d say it’s high time, wouldn’t you?”

He thought back to earlier in his and Dean’s relationship, the way they would simper and prod. _He’s a what? A bartender? Can you really survive on that salary? You’re sure he’s not on welfare? Where does he live? Where is he from? He just doesn’t seem like your type, Castiel._ So on, and so on. Castiel really should have nipped it in the bud a long time ago, but he’d hope a friendship, or at least some kind of pleasant understanding, would develop naturally. After all, Dean had won Castiel over. Certainly, he could do the same to Balthazar and Raphael. Dean was never anything but pleasant to them (at least in Castiel’s presence), but Balthazar and Raphael were determined, it seemed, to dislike him.

“ _It’s just… he’s just different, I suppose. I don’t know. Not who I would expect you to have living with you.”_

“Balthazar,” Castiel said, quietly. “I’m going to need the two of you to make your peace with this. We’re moving in together, and both very happy about it. I’m very happy with _him.”_ He waited a moment. “Am I clear?”

Balthazar tutted. “ _I’m not one of your students, you know.”_ And then he said, “ _But yes, yes, I hear you.”_ He paused. “ _Well, are you doing anything celebrate, at least?”_

Castiel pressed his lips together. “I hadn’t thought about it.” He heard Charlie and Dean burst into laughter back in the office. “Maybe we should get a pizza or something, and have some drinks.” He paused. “Would you like to join?”

“ _Am I going to have to lift anything heavy?”_

“As if you would. No, we’ve already taken care of all that. He doesn’t have many things.” 

“ _Hmm… sounds like a lot of carbs.”_

Castiel chuckled, shaking his head. “Fine. Don’t come, then.”

“ _Now, now, I didn’t say I wasn’t coming. What time?”_

“Whenever. Now?”

“ _All right, let me pull dear Raph-y away from his work. We’ll be over in two shakes.”_

“See you soon, then.”

Castiel ended the call, and stood up from the couch. He went back through the kitchen to the office, where Charlie and Dean were bent over his many boxes and files. The blinds were up on the high windows, and the sun streamed in making the room bright and warm.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, looking up. “Can we throw some of this shit out, or what? We really gotta make some space in here.”

Castiel considered the mess. “Yes. I think, anything more than five years old can be recycled.”

“Sweet.” Charlie crawled to her feet. “I’ll get a garbage bag. Under the sink?”

“Yep,” Dean said, and Charlie brushed past Castiel into the kitchen.

“I invited Balthazar and Raphael over,” Castiel said. “I thought we could order pizza and… celebrate.”

Dean’s face had shuttered at the mention of Balthazar and Raphael. “Oh. Uh… okay. Sounds good.” Dean looked back at the box.

Castiel hovered for a moment, and then walked over, nudged the cardboard boxes out of the way with his foot, and sat down cross-legged on the carpet next to Dean.

“I’m sorry. I think I should have asked you first,” he said.

Dean looked at him, and shook his head. “Nah. It’s fine.”

“I’ll tell them not to come. It can be just you and me.” Castiel sighed. “I… want you to be friends, I suppose. I know I shouldn’t push it.”

Dean shrugged, his face starting to turn pink. “Bring ‘em over. We’ll have a party.”

“A party?” Charlie said from the doorway. She shook a white garbage bag open. “Are you having a party?”

“I think so,” Castiel said.

“Shoot, I should have had Dorothy come by.”

“Call her up,” Dean said. “Tell her to bring a cold six.”

“Yay!” Charlie pulled out her phone. “Move-in party!” She dropped the bag on the ground, and left the room, already dialing Dorothy.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, and leaned forward to give Dean a quick kiss.

“Yeah, well,” Dean said. “Might as well, huh?” Dean reached for his back pocket, and then frowned. “Uh… my wallet’s by the door. I got cash.”

“Nonsense. I’ll get the food.” Dean opened his mouth to protest, and Castiel cut him off. “My treat. Since you did all the heavy lifting today.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He reached over and squeezed Castiel’s leg. “Ain’t you goin’ to St. Louis tomorrow? Sure you got it in ya to have a party?”

Castiel swore. In all the excitement, he’d almost forgotten his annual pilgrimage to LaDue. His flight was at noon the next day. “Why did you have to remind me?” he said. “Now I don’t have an excuse.”

Dean grimaced. “Sorry.”

Castiel ordered pizza – two large cheese, one vegetarian, one all-meat, and enough breadsticks to feed a small army. He helped Charlie and Dean clear as much old paperwork out of his office as he could (he found papers still saved from when he was in his Bachelor program. Maybe he was a hoarder), until Dorothy, Charlie’s slender, brunette girlfriend, arrived with two six-packs of beer.

“You’re my hero,” Charlie said, taking a beer from the pack and cracking it open.

“Thanks, Dorothy,” Dean said, opening a beer himself. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“It’s what I do.”

There was a knock at the door a few minutes later, and Balthazar swanned in, holding a large bottle of pinot, followed by Raphael, who had a look on his face that said he had better things to do.

“Castiel!” Balthazar said, and gave Castiel a hug. “I brought you a bottle. Call it a house-warming.” He gave Castiel the red wine, and shrugged out of his coat.

“Thank you. This is a very good brand.”

“Even year, right?” Balthazar said, and took off his scarf.

“Of course.”

Balthazar looked at Dean over Castiel’s shoulder. “Dean. Always good to see you.”

“Hey,” Dean said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “How are you guys doin’?”

“Exceptional, as always,” Raphael said.

“So, you crazy kids are really doing this, hmm?” Balthazar said, grabbing Castiel around the shoulders and giving him a short shake. “Taking the plunge!”

Charlie looked at the two of them with a grin. “You guys must be Balthazar and Raphael.”

“The very same,” Balthazar said. “You have us at a disadvantage, Miss…?”

“Charlie,” she said, and held out a hand, which Balthazar shook daintily. “Bradbury. I’m a friend of Dean’s.” She pulled back her hand, and pushed it into her jeans pocket. “Yeah, I’ve heard all about you two.”

Balthazar gave her a tight smile. “All good things, I hope.”

Castiel saw Dean look at him. He blushed when Castiel met his gaze, and looked away, taking a swig of beer.

“Would anyone else like a drink?” Castiel said. “Dorothy brought some beer, and we have some more in the refrigerator. We also have some wine, not just this.”

Castiel passed out drinks, and turned on some music. Then he somehow ended up in one of the armchairs next to Charlie, while Dean end up next to Balthazar at the other end of the sofa. Raphael sat in the other throne-like armchair, a pleased look on his face.

“How’s the computer lab?” Castiel said. Charlie was the head of IT for Eisenhower Community College. Castiel hadn’t known her at all for all of the time he had worked there, but Dean had met her soon after he started taking classes, as he didn’t have a printer or a reliable computer. They had, of course, hit it off.

“Ah, it’s fine,” Charlie said, waving a hand. “We had some problems with our Ethernet vendor for the new building. They-…” She launched into a story about their terrible ISP vendor, and Castiel kept one ear on his conversation, and another on Dean’s.

“So,” Raphael said to Dean. “Did you sell?”

“Did I what?” Dean said.

“Did you sell your house? Or is it still in the works?”

“Oh. No, I have – err, _had_ an apartment. We just moved everything out today.”

“Ah. I see,” Raphael said. “How… charming. Where is it?”

Dean sipped his beer. “Kinda near Kensington. Off Blue Hill.”

Raphael and Balthazar looked at each other in exaggerated horror. “Goodness!” Balthazar said. “And we all felt… safe? Staying there?”

Dean scowled. “Of course!” he said. “I never had any problems.”

“I’m surprised Castiel slept a single night in Kensington.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry too much. We spent most of our time here.”

“That makes more sense,” Balthazar said. “Well, I’m sure you’re happy to be out of there and moved in here.”

“Uh…” Dean looked between the two of them. “I mean, yeah. ‘Course.”

“Far more space,” Raphael said. “Bigger than you’re used to, hmm? You’ll be able to spread out.”

Dean didn’t respond, just finished his beer and stood up. “I’m gonna grab another beer.” He walked around the couch and disappeared into the kitchen, and Balthazar and Raphael exchanged an incredulous glance.

“-…and think it’ll take another two months. Can you believe that garbage?” Charlie said. Castiel looked back at her.

“Wow,” he said. “That sounds like… quite the experience.”

“These friggin’ vendors. I can’t even tell you. I mean, do I look like some subcontractor schlub to you?”

“You… don’t. Not at all.”

The doorbell rang as Dean walked back into the living room.

“There’s the pizza,” Castiel said, getting to his feet. He set his beer down on the coffee table. “Hold that thought.”

It was starting to cloud up outside, and Castiel saw spots of rain starting to appear on the ground as he paid the pizza boy. He took the pizza into the kitchen, and pulled down some plates and napkins. Balthazar came right over and opened the boxes up, while Raphael hovered back in the doorway. Dean leaned against the kitchen counter, while Charlie and Dorothy stood beside him.

“This kitchen is so nice, Castiel,” Dorothy said. To Dean, she said, “And you’re such a good cook, I bet you’re in heaven.”

“Yeah, you really won the lotto with this one,” Charlie added, and Dorothy snickered.

“What do you mean?” Dean said. He was tense against the counter, his hand tight on the beer. 

“Did they give you any sauce for the breadsticks?” Balthazar said, and took a bite of one. “Or dip, or something?”

“I don’t know. Probably,” Castiel said. “They should come with marinara or something.”

“This place!” Charlie said. “It really is awesome. And once you get that office cleaned up, you can actually use it as a sunroom. Is he charging you rent, or what?”

“Well…” Dean’s face colored noticeably. “I… no. I dunno. We haven’t really talked about it.”

Castiel’s pulse quickened.

“They didn’t give you any sauce,” Balthazar said in his ear. “There aren’t any dip packets. Do you have anything in the fridge?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said. “Maybe.”

“Why don’t you take care of me like that?” Charlie said to Dorothy, who giggled.

“You make more than me! Why don’t you take care of _me_ like that?” Dorothy said.

“Ah, you’re probably workin’ it off anyway, right?” Charlie said, giving Dean a gentle shove on his shoulder, and she and Dorothy laughed again.

Dean straightened up. “ _Fuck_ you, dude,” Dean said, his voice sharp. There was no laughter on his face. Charlie drew back in surprise, and Balthazar and Raphael both looked over at Dean, matching frowns, eyebrows together.

“Hey,” Dorothy said, pointedly, her hand going to Charlie’s arm.

“Touch-y-y-y! Jesus,” Charlie said. “C’mon, I was just kidding, Dean. Shit.” Then she attempted to laugh good-naturedly, but she was clearly unsettled.

Balthazar clapped his greasy, garlicky hands together. “So! Where are we at in the dip situation?”

Castiel went over to the fridge, and yanked out a jar of spaghetti sauce, and a container of ranch dressing, and then dropped them on the table.

“There. There’s your dip. All right?” Castiel said. He watched Dean out of the corner of his eye, saw him take a long drink of his beer with a shaking hand.

***

Castiel could sense it brewing the rest of the night – Dean’s black mood. Castiel should have known better than to invite people over when he knew Dean was stressed-out about the move. It had been impulsive, not thought out well, and Balthazar and Raphael, of course, had been in top form.

They ate their fill of the pizza, and a still-irate Dorothy and an apologetic Charlie left fairly soon after. Raphael and Balthazar lingered for a bit, finishing a good amount of beer before Castiel hustled them out.

“I have an early flight to catch,” he lied, as he pushed them out the door. It was raining hard now, cold and almost sleeting. “Drive safe,” he said, and shut the door, then leaned against it, suddenly exhausted. “Remind me to never have another guest over as long as I live.”

Dean was on the couch, slumped against the cushions. If he were anyone else, Castiel would have called it pouting.

Castiel wandered over to the bookshelf, bent down and picked up one of Dean’s books – _Fahrenheit-451._ “I love this book.” He straightened up. “Maybe we should move this shelf into the office as well. We could put something else here. What do you think?”

Dean shrugged, and Castiel set the book on the shelf on its side.

“What is it?” he said, and walked around to sit on the sofa beside Dean. “Are you angry with my friends? Or yours?”

Dean looked at him. “I wanna know how much I’m payin’ you a month.”

Castiel blinked at him. “You… what?” he said.

“I need to know so I can budget it. It’s probably gonna be more than my rent was.” Dean shook his head, and looked at the coffee table. “Guess I shoulda thought to ask before I gave up my apartment, but here we are.”

“You don’t need to pay rent. You know I don’t need the money.”

“Yes, I do,” Dean snapped, sitting up. “I’m not gonna be your little, little kept boy, or whatever. If I’m gonna live, here, I’m gonna pay rent and half of the bills.”

“So, you want to be… What? My roommate?”

Dean blushed. “That’s not what I’m fuckin’ sayin’. Just because you can afford it, doesn’t mean I’m gonna be some kinda mooch and live off of you for the entire time I’m here.”

Castiel scrubbed his hands over his face. He was tired from waking up early for the move, and had a headache from the beer. He was irritated with Balthazar and Raphael to the point that he was ready to tell them to fuck off for good, and now Dean was harping about money once again. “Do we have to do this now? Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“ _No_ ,” Dean snapped, with surprising fervor. “We’re gonna talk about it now. I wanna know how much your mortgage is, and your electric and water and shit. You gotta have bills somewhere in that mess in the office.”

“I have all of that set on direct deposit,” Castiel said. “I usually don’t even look. It just comes out of my bank account.”

Dean fixed him with a hard stare. “You don’t know how much you pay a month for bills?”

Castiel blushed, feeling stupid and hating it. “That’s… _no,_ that’s not what I’m saying. I just don’t know off the top of my head.”

“Well, go find out, and tell me!” 

“ _Why,_ ” Castiel said, “are you so intent on picking a fight with me about this tonight?” When Dean didn’t respond, Castiel said, “I cannot stand it when you’re like this. I don’t need a roommate. You’re my boyfriend. My partner. I don’t care about the bills, and you’re not paying me rent like I’m some sort of landlord.”

“Well, I do!” Dean said, almost shouted. “ _I care!_ Goddammit, Cas, I-….”

Castiel jerked to his feet, absolutely furious, feeling like a pot of water boiling over. Dean flinched back in his seat, looking up at him.

“This was supposed to be a great day,” Castiel said. “And you’ve ruined it.” He grabbed his keys and his coat and left the house, slamming the door behind him.

***

Castiel already felt like an asshole as he was walking out of the house. He didn’t want to have to explain this to anyone, didn’t want to talk to anyone else. He drove to an anonymous sports bar, and nursed a gin and tonic, staring blandly at a football game on the TV.

God damn it. Why hadn’t they talked about this more before Dean had moved in? About bills, mortgage, anything? Castiel knew Dean had issues with money, with Castiel’s money specifically. He should have known better. He’d allowed his happiness about Dean agreeing to move in to cloud his judgement on the reality of the situation. He was surprised that Dean hadn’t brought it up long ago.

It was past midnight when he returned home, cooled-off and a little embarrassed. He knew he needed to apologize. He’d snapped at Dean – over what? Wanting to pay part of the bills? What was wrong with that?

The house was dark and quiet, and the only sound was the rain on the roof, against the windows. Castiel pulled off his boots in the doorway, abandoned his coat, and walked carefully up the stairs. If Dean was asleep, he wouldn’t wake him.

The bedroom door was shut, and Castiel was worried that he would find it locked.

It wasn’t. He pushed it open, trying to stay silent. Dean was curled up on his side of the bed, blanket up to his eyebrows, but he sat up when Castiel opened the door.

“Cas?” he said, urgently. His voice was thick, and Castiel was mortified. It sounded like Dean had been crying. His first night moved in to a new home, and he had been lying in bed in the dark, alone, and crying.

“I’m here.” Castiel stripped down to his tee-shirt and boxers, and climbed into bed, sliding into Dean’s space, wrapping his arms around him from behind. Dean was shirtless, and his skin was hot against Castiel’s face. “Dean,” he started, but Dean cut him off. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “I shouldn’t have… I just… I didn’t mean to ruin today. I didn’t mean…” Castiel felt him wipe his face in the dark.

“You didn’t ruin anything. Not a thing.” Castiel kissed the back of his neck. “I overreacted. I apologize.”

“I don’t know why I… I mean, I didn’t have to bring all that shit up today. I just don’t want you to think I’m here ‘cuz you got a nice house, and, ya know….”

“I’ve never once thought that, Dean. Never once. Do you understand?”

Dean nodded.

“We’ll write up a plan for the bills this week. I’ll, uh…” He laughed quietly. “I’ll look up how much my water and power are. Don’t worry about it anymore.”

Dean nodded again.

“I know you don’t want to feel like you’re using me. I know.” Castiel ran his fingers down the outside of Dean’s arm, down to his hand, traced the space where his veins forked. “I need you to understand that it doesn’t matter to me. I want you here, paid up or not. You’re my partner and I love you, so if you want to pay rent, I suppose that’s fine.”

“Just wanna pay my fair share,” Dean said, almost whispered. He sniffed. “It’s… you don’t get it, Cas. You’ve never…” He sighed, and shook his head.

“Go on.” Castiel laid his head against Dean’s back. “Be honest. I need to hear it.”

Quietly, Dean said, “I don’t wanna fight anymore.”

“Then let’s not fight. Tell me how you feel.”

“I… sometimes I… I feel like you don’t know how good you have it. You haven’t ever had to… struggle. Ya know? You always knew when your next meal was comin’. You’ve never spent days livin’ outta your car ‘cuz your Dad lost your rent money for the month. I’ve really had to work for… for everything. Everything I have. Hearin’ you say it doesn’t matter… I… it _does_ matter. I need to contribute. Otherwise… what am I?” Dean shook his head. “Fuck. Sayin’ it out loud sounds so stupid.”

Castiel felt a sudden lump in his throat. He really was an asshole. “No. Not at all.” He squeezed Dean tightly. “I f… I feel awful. You’re right. I have been very privileged. I know sometimes I don’t see things from your perspective.”

“Then we’ll get it figured out,” Dean said. “Tomorrow, though.”

“Yes.”

Dean rolled over so that he and Castiel were facing. “You smell good. Like a thunderstorm. Were you outside?”

“Yes. It’s still raining.”

“Where’d you go?” Dean’s hand slid up Castiel’s back, over his shirt.

Castiel snorted. “A bar.”

Dean chuckled quietly. “Asshole. You drunk?”

“I should think not,” Castiel sniffed. “I had one drink and watched a football game.”

“Who won?”

Castiel felt himself start to shake with laughter. “I have no idea.” Dean snorted out a laugh.

“Christ. You’re hopeless.” He moved against Castiel, breathing him in, sliding a hand up under the back of his shirt. “Ya know… we still gotta christen the new place…”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “We have had _relations_ here plenty of times.”

“Yeah. Tonight’s different, though.” Dean placed a kiss at the hollow of his throat, the point of his pulse, and then his lips. He pulled Castiel on top of him, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “C’mon. Want you. You’re leavin’ me for St. Louis.”

“I’ll be back in less than a week.”

“Shut up,” Dean said, and kissed him again. He pulled Castiel’s shirt over his head, and then shucked off his own pants. Castiel got out of his boxers, and pulled Dean flush against him, relishing the feel of his warm skin. Dean sighed, and ran his hands up Castiel’s back, then wrapped his fingers around his shoulders and held him. Castiel reached over and turned on the dim bedside lamp, the light making Dean wince.

“Sorry. Should I leave it off?”

“Nah.” Dean blinked a few times. “Want you to see what you’re doin’.”

Castiel teased his fingers over Dean’s nipples, feeling them peak to hard points, listened to Dean’s breathing catch when he pinched them. He rocked his hips against Dean’s, letting his warming cock drag over Dean’s, who was quickly growing hard.

“What do you want?” Castiel murmured, and Dean let out a quiet, wry laugh.

“You know what I want,” he said, and reached down between their bodies to grasp Castiel’s cock. “This bad boy. In me to the hilt.”

Castiel bit back a laugh. “Your dirty talk is top-notch.”

“Yeah, ya like that?” Dean said, grinning, still stroking Castiel’s cock. Castiel kissed him again, pushed up against his hand. He groped into the bedside table for the lube. Dean shifted down on the bed, spreading his legs apart while Castiel slicked his fingers. “C’mon.”

“All right, all right,” Castiel said. He bent down and pressed his lips around Dean’s nipple, and then slid a finger inside his hole. Dean grunted, pushing against his finger, and Castiel closed his teeth around his nipple while he fingered him.

“Ah!” Dean groaned, his legs tensing around Castiel’s body. “Fuck yeah, Cas…” Castiel moved his mouth to Dean’s other nipple, licked it, and then attached his teeth to it, biting gently, and then harder, until Dean let out a keen. He released the nipple and slid in a second finger, making Dean gasp.

Castiel fingered him for a while, teasing and touching, playing with his nipples, licking and biting and pinching them, until Dean’s cock was hard as a rock, straight up against his stomach. His nipples were red and puffy, and Castiel couldn’t resist licking them once more.

“God damn, Cas,” Dean groaned. His face and chest were bright-red, and clear fluid was puddling on his stomach, dripping out of the tip of his twitching cock like a steady stream. “Fuck me, damn it, _please.”_

“All right.” Castiel withdrew his fingers, and wiped his hand on a tissue. He pulled a condom out of the bedside table, but Dean took it out of his hand, and dropped it back into the drawer, his face growing even redder.

“Dean,” Castiel said, his pulse rocketing up, adrenaline flushing through him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Dean gave him a sly smile. “Why? Ya messin’ around on me?”

Castiel held his gaze, and shook his head. Fiercely, he said, “Never.” He kissed Dean deeply, and ran his mouth down Dean’s throat.

“You gonna fuck me raw, Cas?” Dean growled.

“ _Yes.”_ Castiel’s body was alight with anticipation. He slicked his cock with lube, and took a slow breath, tried to steady himself. He urged the head of his cock against Dean’s hole, and slid in slowly, the heat of Dean’s ass enveloping him completely. “Oh, my _God,”_ he said, and almost started to laugh. He hadn’t fucked anyone bare in years; he’d forgotten how good it felt. It was almost overwhelming for a moment, and he felt crazily like he might cum right away, like a damn teenager. “Dean. You feel _so_ good.”

Dean was smiling, almost shyly. “S-So do you.” His thighs trembled under Castiel’s hands as he pushed Dean’s legs further apart. “ _Mmh! Fuck,”_ he grunted, dropping his head back against the pillows.

Castiel pulled out slowly, and thrust back in. “I hope you’re close,” he said. “I don’t know how long I can last like this.”

“You better fuckin’ give it to me, then,” Dean said, color high on his cheeks.

Castiel was too happy to oblige. He started to fuck Dean harder, snapping his hips, making Dean’s body jerk. Dean braced a hand against the headboard, swearing, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Dean!” Castiel hissed. His hole was hot and slick, and Castiel felt out of his mind with pleasure. He kept the pace as long as he could, but it just felt too good. “I can’t… fuck, I’m going to cum…!”

“ _Cas…!”_ Suddenly, Dean’s ass was tightening around Castiel’s cock, squeezing him like a vice. Dean’s body bowed off the bed, and his cock twitched hard, and shot ropes of cum across his stomach, completely untouched. Dean’s eyes were shut tight, his mouth open, hands tight in the sheets. “ _Uh…! Uh-uh-uh-uh! Fuck!”_ Dean got out, sounding strangled, and then he dropped against the bed, gasping. “Oh, fuck! Oh, oh, my _God…”_

“Did…?” Castiel got out. “I can’t believe… did you just…?”

“I, it just… _happened…”_ Dean said, a little out of breath, looking completely stunned.

Castiel grabbed him, covered him with his body, fucked into his hard. “That was… that was so… _gorgeous,_ Dean, I can’t believe you just… _ah!_ I’m going to cum inside you…!”

“Do it, Cas…” Dean breathed.

Castiel raked his nails down Deans’ back and came, shooting inside him, buried to the hilt as requested. He dropped his head against Dean’s shoulder, and wrapped him in his arms.

“Oh, fuck… oh, shit…” Dean moaned, and let his arms flop out beside him. Castiel kissed his throat, his chest, and then rolled over off of him, his softening cock wet and slippery. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t believe I was feelin’ you inside me like that. I’ve never… with anyone. Shit. Holy shit, Cas, that was… _shit…”_ Dean let out a gasping laugh. Quietly, almost to himself, he whispered, “Wow.”

Warmth spread through Castiel’s body like a sunbeam. He felt a million miles high. He felt like a king. Castiel rolled over to lay closer to Dean, slinging a leg over his, and kissed his shoulder. “That was good?”

Dean grinned at the ceiling. “Christ. You know that was good. Was fuckin’ great.”

Castiel ran a hand down Dean’s chest, through the cum on his stomach, and gently gripped his softening cock. “Good.”

Dean tensed. “Uh… I gotta go to the bathroom,” he said, and quickly crawled out of bed. He waddled a little into the en-suite, and nudged the door shut. “Oh, yuck. I changed my mind,” he said, a minute later. “We’re goin’ back to condoms.”

Castiel shook his head, biting back a laugh. “Whatever you want,” he called back. He heard the shower start, and then climbed out of bed to put on a clean tee-shirt and shorts.

Dean was quick, and he emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, and pulled on his discarded sweatpants right away. Outside of sex, Dean had a level of modesty that had always surprised Castiel. Not that it bothered him, of course. But Castiel wouldn’t mind if Dean wanted to lay about the house nude all day.

Dean caught him grinning at nothing. “What are you smilin’ at?”

“You.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and tossed a pillow at him. “Fuck off,” he said, and then he dropped onto the mattress, and let out an exaggerated sigh of contentment. “God, your bed is comfy.”

“Our bed.”

Dean nodded, his eyes shut. “Our bed.”

***

The phone ringing woke Castiel early. He glared at the clock – _7:12 AM –_ and shut his eyes.

“Can you…?” he said into the pillow.

Dean grunted, and Castiel heard him fumbling for the house phone. Dean cleared his throat, and answered, “Hullo? …uh… This is Dean. Who’s…?” The tinny voice on the other end spoke quickly, and then Dean was shaking Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s your mom,” he said.

Castiel bit his tongue to keep from swearing, and grabbed the phone.

“Good morning, Mother,” he said, forcing himself to sit up. “Is something the matter?”

“ _Of course not,”_ his mother said. There was an edge in her voice. “ _I just needed to talk to you.”_

“It’s a little bit early, isn’t it?”

“ _Well, I assumed you’d be awake. We’re getting ready for Mass, and I thought it would be a convenient time. Who was that man?”_

Castiel’s was completely off-guard. He floundered for almost ten seconds, looking back at Dean, his heart in his throat. Dean’s eyebrows came together, and he mouthed, _What?_

“That was Dean. My…” Castiel’s throat closed up, his face heating. “He… H-He lives here. With me.”

Dean’s mouth opened, and then closed.

“ _What?”_ his mother said.

Castiel took a breath. “He moved in yesterday.” He had to look away from Dean, and he looked at the grey duvet instead. 

His mother was silent for a long moment, and Castiel waited for… something, anything, any kind of reaction.

“ _You… he’s… a roommate?”_ she finally said. “ _Really, Castiel. At your age? What must your neighbors think?”_ Castiel laid back down and shut his eyes, keeping the phone against his ear. “ _Are you struggling to pay your mortgage? Is that what this is? I knew that community college wasn’t paying enough-…”_

Castiel had never struggled to pay his mortgage. His trust fund allotted him plenty of money, and his salary was fine – she was digging at him purely for the sake of digging at him. “Mother. I don’t need money. And he is not my roommate.” She went quiet again, breathing into the handset, and Castiel said, “Do you understand?”

She was quiet, still, but Castiel waited her out. “ _Well,”_ she said. And then, quieter, she said, “ _Well, I don’t… I don’t want to hear anything about that.”_ Then, brightly, she said, “ _What time does your flight get in? We can pick you up-…”_

“I’m just going to rent a car again.”

She tutted. “ _If you insist.”_

“I should be to the house by two.”

“ _You’ll miss lunch.”_

“I know. I’m sorry. I have to go now, Mother. I’ll see you soon.”

“ _All right. Good-bye, Castiel.”_

Castiel ended the call, and stared at the phone. His face was still hot, his hand shaking a little from the adrenaline rush. Dean was propped up on one arm, watching him, lips pressed together.

“Wow,” Dean said. “Uh… wasn’t expecting…”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel dropped the phone onto the blanket. “That was a mess.” He ran his hands over his face. “I give you fresh hell for not kissing me in public, and then I go and clam up when I try to talk to my parents. You must think I’m a real hypocrite.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s fine, Cas. You know I… you don’t have to tell them about me.” He gave Castiel a small smile. “Or I could just be your roommate to them. Whatever.” He licked his lips, and studied the sheets. “I, uh. I don’t blame you. My dad doesn’t know a thing, ya know? About me. Shit, if he knew I was shacked up with a dude…” His face and chest went a little pink, and he shook his head.

“It’s still not right. It… doesn’t feel right.” Castiel started to climb out of bed, but Dean reached for him and pulled him back.

“Where you goin’?”

“Mmmh.” Castiel pulled the blankets back over him. “Still need to pack.”

“Fuck it. Pack later.” Dean pulled Castiel into his arms. Castiel tried to relax, but he was tense. Dean rubbed his back, and said, “Okay?”

“I’m dreading this trip. I mean, really dreading it, this time.” Castiel ran a hand through his hair. “My mother knows I’m gay. Did I ever tell you that? She caught me once. In high school.”

“No! Like… with another guy?” Dean said, sounding almost stricken at the thought.

“Of course. I was terrified that she would tell my father. But I think she blocked out the memory or something. That’s how she acts, anyway.” 

Dean laughed quietly, but it felt brittle, almost fake. “What were you doin’?”

“We were just… kissing.” Castiel grimaced. “On the bed. With my shirt off.”

Castiel recalled the whole, horrible, awkward experience with painful clarity. Castiel remembered himself at seventeen, a junior in high school, marginally miserable and finally coming to terms with himself. No one was supposed to be home. Michael was out of law school and living in Chicago by then, Gabriel was failing out of college and in and out of the house, his father was at school teaching a class, and his mother was supposed to be at her book club. He’d thought that he and Samandriel, who had so few opportunities for their sloppy, teenaged rutting, might have some privacy.

They had stripped out of their private school jackets and ties, and Castiel had unbuttoned his shirt, had his hands on Samandriel’s belt when his mother walked into his bedroom. She didn’t knock – she never knocked.

“Castiel, I’m going to-…” she started, and then froze, dead-stopped in the doorway. Castiel had been equally frozen, half on Samandriel’s lap. His mother, still dark-haired then, still formidable and frightening. Her face formed into a blank mask, and she turned and left, and quietly closed the door behind her. Castiel and Samandriel had looked at each other in horror, and redressed quickly. Castiel had hustled Samandriel back out of the house, but his mother was already gone. Castiel had waited all day, had eaten dinner tense as a wire, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but his mother was pleasant as ever, acted like nothing had changed. 

“We used to be close,” Castiel said to Dean, staring up at the ceiling. “Before that. When I was younger. I think because I was the baby of the family, you know? But after that, she stopped… talking to me. I mean, I just dropped off of her radar. Unless I did something she didn’t approve of.” He traced the seam of the comforter with his fingertips. “I don’t know. Maybe she forgot. Or didn’t see as much as I thought. But I doubt it.”

“But she still…? I mean… she still tries to set you up with chicks?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure that’s why she’s so insistent about it.” Castiel blushed, and he curled against Dean’s body to hide his face. “I… That will probably happen again this time.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Hmm.” He stared up at the ceiling fan, and put one hand behind his head.

“I’m sorry. Are you upset?”

“I dunno. Maybe.” Dean blew out a breath. “Guess I’m not exactly pleased that a bunch of girls are gonna be hittin’ on you.” He rolled over to face Castiel, and gave him a weak smile. “As long as you don’t sleep with any of ‘em, I guess it’ll be okay.”

Castiel felt his face twist in disgust. “I would never.”

Dean laughed. “You never made it with a girl?”

“No,” Castiel said. “I’m gay!”

“Well. Still…” Dean shrugged one bare shoulder. “You ain’t ever been curious?”

“Not particularly,” Castiel said. “I mean, I had a ‘girlfriend’ in high school for a while. But we never did more than kiss. You’ve had sex with women?”

“Sure. When I was in high school, a little after,” Dean said. “Sometimes it was pretty good. But I always preferred guys.”

Castiel propped his head up in his chin. “You’ve had a lot of partners.”

Dean’s face reddened a little, and he looked away. “Um. I guess.”

“No! No, I don’t mean… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that like it was something bad. I… well. You know. I’m very private. I haven’t brought many men into my life. Any encounters I had that were purely physical did very little for me. I mean, I may as well have been masturbating for all it brought me.” Dean chuckled. “But that’s just me,” Castiel continued. “I know other people feel differently. I’m utterly indifferent about it. And it doesn’t change my opinion about you.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he was clearly fighting the urge to smile. “Thanks, Dr. Ruth.” Castiel leaned over and kissed him, and then he reached up and pinched Dean’s nipple, making Dean yelp in surprise. Castiel pushed away from him, and got up to pack. “Hey!” Dean said, rubbing his chest. “Don’t key me up and leave me hangin’!”

“I’m going to be late,” Castiel said, and dragged his suitcase out of the closet.

***

The airport parking garage was crammed. Dean circled the levels over and over again, white knuckled and hunched, cursing under his breath as he was cut off again.

“You can just drop me off at Departures,” Cas said again. “You don’t need to come in with me.”

Dean just grunted. Cas glanced at his watch again, clearly trying not to look as impatient as he felt. It was clear on his face, though. Dean looked at him and said, “You’re not late, are you?”

Cas shook his head. “No. No, I’m not.”

Dean finally found a parking spot, and he wedged the Impala carefully between a Volvo and a Chevy truck. He turned off the engine, and took a breath. “Finally,” he said, and leaned back in the seat. He pulled the keys out of the ignition and twisted them in his hands. “Should we get you in there?”

Cas pushed himself across the seat, and folded himself against Dean. Dean wrapped his arm around Cas’ shoulder. “Not yet. Let me just sit here another moment.”

Dean slung an arm around him, feeling like a sponge, absorbing every last bit of affection he could get before Cas left him.

After a moment, Cas looked at his watch. “Shit,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Dean opened the door, and edged out of the car, careful not to ding his baby against the other car.

Cas didn’t have a big suitcase, just a carry-on and his snobby messenger bag. He got checked in for his flight while Dean waited off to the side, hands in his pockets, feeling useless and in the way. Cas came back over to him holding his boarding pass.

“Let’s sit for a moment,” Cas said, and led Dean over to a cluster of empty seats. Dean sank down beside him.

“Okay?” Dean said.

“Yes,” Cas said, looking miserable. “I just… hate this trip.” He sighed, and shook his head. “And I hate feeling like this. So ridiculous. I mean, how bad is it, really? We exchange gifts, I get prodded at, I leave. Repeat in a year.”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno, Cas. It sounds like a big pain in the ass to me.” He reached over, and squeezed Cas’ arm.

“Next year,” Cas said. “I think I’ll stay home.”

“I get you every day of the year,” Dean said, and smiled. “I guess your family can have you on Christmas.”

Cas looked off toward the gates. “I’d better go. You know the garbage goes out on-…”

“I know, Cas,” Dean said. “I have literally never forgotten when to take your garbage out.”

Cas grinned at him. “Yes. Of course.”

A thrill went through him, a sudden rush, and Dean pulled Cas close and kissed him. He pulled away a little quickly, but Cas was still smiling as he walked off towards the security gate.

Dean returned home, at odds with the empty house. He sat back in the office and continued to sort through Castiel’s papers and files, until he lost interest and went out to watch TV instead. He saw he had some texts that he’d miss a while ago.

_From Cas: Landed. Not a single damn rental available. Taking a cab._

And then a few minutes later – _From Cas: This cab reeks._

Dean snickered.

_From Dean: Sorry. Maybe we’ll buy you a car so you can just drive yourself next year._

_From Dean: or u can always stay home_

He waited, but Cas didn’t text back. Dean laid back on the sofa, half-watching TV, half-watching the ceiling fan swirl over him. Then he sent Cas another text.

_From Dean: Feels weird here without you._

_From Cas: It wouldn’t feel like that if you had moved in sooner._

Dean felt his face warm. He was still trying to decide how to respond when his phone buzzed again.

_From Cas: Sorry. That was supposed to be a joke. Ha ha?_

Dean grinned.

_From Dean: I got it. Ha ha._

_From Cas: Already started in with marriage talk. I’m going to jump off a bridge._

_From Dean: Have a few drinks first, at least._

_From Cas: Oh yes._

***

His parents Christmas Eve party was in full swing. Castiel had managed to avoid his mother and the woman she had selected for him (a blonde in her thirties, more appropriate than previous selections) by keeping carefully away from the bar and the Christmas tree.

The night before had been somehow worse than Castiel had expected. Castiel barely had a drink in his hand before his mother started in.

“You need a haircut,” she had said, her annual greeting.

“I suppose,” Castiel said, and sipped his gin and tonic – heavy on the gin. Gabriel was already several deep, and Michael was in the same, blank space he always was when Castiel arrived, sat beside Anna, who was tipping a glass of white wine directly down her throat.

“You look like a teenager. I mean, how old are you now, Castiel? 38?”

“35,” Castiel said.

“I just don’t understand you. Your father and I were married and had Michael, Gabriel, _and_ you by the time we were your age. Michael was almost in high school when I was 35!”

“Hear that, Cassie?” Gabriel said. “You coulda been almost done with all of it by now!”

“That’s _not_ what I’m saying,” his mother said, venomously.

Dad said, placatingly, “We also recognize that it was different time, then.”

His mother waved a hand. “We’re just worried about you. We don’t want you to end up, I don’t know… an eternal bachelor.”

“Can’t you bother Gabriel about his sex life instead of me?” Castiel bit out. His mother gasped (actually _gasped,_ for the love of God).

“That isn’t what this is about,” Dad said, side-stepping his question.

“I am _happy_ to talk about my sex life, if anyone wants details,” Gabriel said.

“Gabriel, please,” Mother said.

Castiel stared at her. “You know I won’t be getting married. There doesn’t seem to be much point in talking this to death.”

Mother stared back at him, color rising in her cheeks.

“Does anyone need another drink?” Anna said abruptly, getting to her feet.

“Yeah, top me up,” Gabriel said.

He’d had a brief reprieve the next day, as his mother was fully distracted with ordering the caterers around, setting up for the party. And once the guests began to arrive, Castiel was able to disappear, slip away, hide like a coward.

His phone buzzed with a missed call around ten. He abandoned the hot, crowded house, and went to stand on the front veranda. Castiel dialed Dean back, and wrapped his free arm around himself.

“ _Hey.”_

“Hello, Dean.”

“ _What’s goin’ on?”_ Dean said.

“The usual.” Castiel sank down into the wicker chair. He was liquor-warm, but could feel the chill in the air, could see his breath. “How are you?”

“ _Well… uh…”_ Dean quieted for a moment. “ _Just… ya know. Just miss you and, and stuff.”_

Castiel swallowed. “It’s harder than I thought it would be. Being away from you, I mean. I don’t think it helps that it’s Christmas.”

“ _You doin’ okay?”_

“I suppose,” Castiel said. “Where are you? Take me home for a minute.”

“ _I went over to Charlie’s this morning. We had a nice big lunch, and then they’re goin’ to her parents’ house for Christmas.”_ He laughed quietly. “ _She gave me a Star Trek clock. They have a present for you, too.”_

“That’s nice.”

“ _And then tonight I just slummed around on the couch.”_ Dean paused. “ _How are your folks?”_

“Honestly?” Castiel lowered his voice. “They’re driving me fucking crazy.”

Dean let out a peal of laughter. “ _Ah, shit. I’m sorry. They havin’ their party?”_

“Of course.”

“ _Aright. I’ll let ya go. Just wanted to check in.”_

Castiel sighed, and leaned his head back against the chair. “Okay. I love you, Dean. I’ll see you-…” A flicker of movement in his peripheral; Castiel turned to see Gabriel standing on the porch, holding one gin and tonic, and one screwdriver. “Oh, God damn it.”

“ _What? What is it?”_

“Err… Nothing. Nothing. Can I call you later?”

“ _’Course you can.”_

“I love you. Bye.” Castiel ended the call, and shoved his phone in his pocket.

“Well, well, well,” Gabriel said.

“Shut up.”

“Dean, was it?” Gabriel said, walking over slowly. He plopped into the other chair. “Why, that’s not a woman’s name… But why would you possibly be having a conversation like that with a man?” He caught sight of the look on Castiel’s face. “Oh, Jesus. I’m just fucking with you.”

Castiel reached up and snatched the gin and tonic out of Gabriel’s hand, and took a long swallow.

“He’s… we’re…” The alcohol hit him hard, heat rushing to his head.

Gabriel pulled out a cigarette, and offered the pack to Castiel. Castiel waved him away. “His name’s Dean?”

“Y…Yes.” There it was. It was out. Someone knew about Dean. _Really_ knew.

In a sing-song voice, Gabriel said, “So, what’s he do-o-o?” He lit the cigarette and blew smoke politely away.

“He’s a mechanic. He manages a garage.”

“Wow-wee.”

Castiel’s face was on fire, his palm sweating on the glass. “We’re… he moved in this week.”

“You guys are _living together?”_ Gabriel squawked, open shock on his face.

“Quiet down. Yes.”

“Wh…” To his surprise, Gabriel actually looked a little hurt. “You could have said something!”

Castiel shook his head, and stared at his drink. “I… It’s hard. To talk about it with family.”

“Oh, cripes. You think I give a shit that you’re a homo?”

Castiel scowled at him. “That’s not exactly the PC term, shithead.”

Gabriel chortled. “You know I knew, right?” he said, and tapped ash on the porch.

“What?”

“Uh… high school. That kid, what’s his… Alfie? Right?”

Castiel could only nod dumbly.

Gabriel chuckled again. “Yeah. You weren’t as slick as you thought.”

“Why didn’t you… tell anyone?”

“Um… because I’m not an animal?” Gabriel rolled his eyes, and took a drink of his screwdriver. “Shit, though. Living together? Castiel, that’s… serious.”

Castiel nodded. “Yes,” he said.

Gabriel rummaged through his pockets, and pulled out his phone. He tapped around for a moment, and then showed Castiel the screen. It was a picture of Gabriel in a suit and a pretty Indian woman wearing a red blouse and a black skirt. They were smiling, cheek to cheek.

“Who’s…? Oh!”

“ _Who_ is Kali.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “We’ve been together on and off for, uh, about three, or four years. Or five?” He shrugged. “But who’s counting?”

Castiel smiled, shaking his head. “She’s lovely.”

Gabriel pocketed his phone. “I’ve been thinkin’… you know? It might be time. She might be the one.” He grinned, and shook his head. “The one!”

“My God,” Castiel said.

“Well, shit, kid. I’m almost forty. It’s about that time, right? To, uh…” He gestured with his cigarette. “Time to put up or shut up.”

_Put up or shut up._ The words struck something in Castiel, clanged inside his chest like a plucked harp string.

“Hey.” A voice over by the front door. Castiel turned to see his father standing on the porch. “What are you guys doing out here?”

Gabriel gestured out at the lawn. “Just enjoying the party,” he said, and took a drag on his cigarette.

Dad nodded. “Castiel… your mother was hoping to introduce you to a friend of hers.”

Castiel couldn’t keep the sour look off of his face. He looked away, taking another sip of his drink.

“Jesus,” Gabriel grunted.

Dad hovered for moment, and then he said, “You know she just wants what’s best for you. What she thinks is best.”

Castiel shut his eyes. “Yes.” Gabriel let out a rude wheeze of a laugh.

Dad drifted there for another moment, like seaweed in water, and then said, “I’ll, uh… I’ll tell her I couldn’t find you.” He opened the front door, and disappeared back into the wave of sound from the house.

Gabriel looked at Castiel. “Holy shit. Did he just grow a pair?”

Castiel shrugged. _Put up, or shut up,_ he thought. _Put up, or shut up._

***

Christmas day passed sluggishly. The kids went wild for their presents, and played in the brightly colored sea of wrapping paper all morning, until they fell asleep in front of the television, tuned in to Christmas specials. Castiel was hungover and groggy, and he noted that Gabriel and Anna were in similar situations, sipping water and coffee, and barely nibbling on their brunches.

His mother was tight-lipped and quiet most of the day. Castiel could feel her resentment growing and growing all day, like a swelling storm cloud.

They were sitting in the living room after dinner, nightcaps in-hand, when she finally opened up.

“Castiel,” she said. “I really can’t believe you.”

Castiel exchanged a glance with Gabriel, who shrugged. Anna frowned at them, and Michael didn’t look up from his phone. 

His mother adjusted her pashmina. “Hester came to the party last night just to meet you, and you made yourself perfectly scarce. We couldn’t find you all night.”

“Who?” Castiel said, drawing a full blank.

“Hester!” Mother snapped. “My friend from the gardening club!”

Gabriel nodded. “Her Eligible Bachelorette for you. Last night.”

“Ah.” Castiel ran a hand through his hair. “Right. I must have just missed her.”

Mother crossed her arms. “You need to give her a call. Right now.”

Castiel scowled. “What?”

“Naomi,” Dad said, shaking his head.

“You need to call her right now and apologize,” Mother continued.

Castiel heard Gabriel’s voice in his head. _Put up or shut up. Put up or shut up. Put up or shut up._ A rush of adrenaline went through him.

“I am absolutely not doing that,” he said, as firmly as he dared.

Anna, Gabriel, and Dad looked at him, surprise clear on their faces.

Mother bristled. “You absolutely will. You-…”

“ _No.”_ Castiel sat up. “You need to listen to me. You are going to stop trying to set me up with these women. I have no interest in it. I don’t want it. Do you understand?”

Mother stared at him, her lips parted. “I don’t understand why you’re attacking me. All I’m trying to do is help you!”

“Jesus, Mom…” Gabriel said.

“Shut up, Gabriel,” Castiel said. All he could think of was sitting beside Dean on that hotel bed months before, Dean’s voice coming out shaky. _I’m a little nervous about tomorrow._ Dean, sweating through his suit, introducing him to Bobby in front of Stanford Stadium, practically trembling with nerves. _Put up or shut up._

“And now this business with this roommate! I just can’t believe you!”

“He’s not my damn roommate!” Castiel snapped. “Do I really need to spell this out for you?”

His mother’s face went a horrible, blotchy red. “I told you that I didn’t want to hear a word about that.”

“A word about what?” Dad said, looking back and forth between Castiel and his mother.

“For the love of God.” Castiel looked at his father. “I’m gay,” he spat out. It was a horrible relief to say it out loud to them, to finally get it out, say it, let it sting the air. Castiel looked at his mother, and said, “And you know it. You’ve known it since I was in high school. And I’ve been with Dean for three years. He’s my _boyfriend._ I refuse to hide it for another second.”

“ _Three years?”_ Dad said.

“And what?” his mother said. “Am I supposed to be happy for you? That you’ve been doing… doing _God knows what_ with, with a _homosexual?”_

“Naomi!” Anna said, clearly horrified.

“Mom, what the fuck?” Gabriel said.

Mother ignored him, went on like she didn’t even hear them. “And now he’s living in your house. In your _house,_ Castiel!” Mother said. “Disgusting. That _vile_ man in your house.”

Castiel sat forward in his chair. “You will watch how you speak about him,” he hissed. “I will not sit here and listen to this. I won’t do it. I’ll go back to Kansas City, I swear to God. I’ll leave right now.”

“Then go.” Mother stood abruptly. “By all means.” She left the room, taking her drink with her.

“Naomi, wait. Wait a minute!” Dad called after her. He shook his head, and looked at Castiel. “What the hell is the matter with you?” Castiel felt himself flinch, like he’d been slapped. He’d always held out hope that his father would be the sympathetic parent, but instead he just looked furious. “What were you thinking? It’s _Christmas._ Why in God’s name would you bring this up now?” He waved a hand after their mother. “How could you do this to her today?”

Castiel’s stomach clenched, and for moment he thought he might cry. “You’re right,” he said, sourly. “I just wanted to make the holidays as miserable as possible.”

“This isn’t how we raised you, Castiel,” Dad said, shaking his head. “This is absolutely… I…” He seemed too overwhelmed to speak.

“This isn’t how you raised me. Right.” Castiel leaned forward in his chair. “Next year I’ll just fuck my TA instead.”

Dad’s eyes widened, his face mottling.

“Whoa!” Gabriel said. He grabbed Castiel by the shoulder, and pulled him back in his chair. “Okay, okay. Let’s all just calm down.”

Dad stared at Castiel for a long minute, and Castiel held his gaze. Dad looked away, picked up his scotch, and left the room.

Castiel sank back in the chair. All of the energy sapped out of him at once. Something in the fire snapped, and sparks showered against the grate.

“I think that went well!” Gabriel chirped. “Hey, do you think now’s the time to tell them I’m dating an Indian girl?”

“Castiel,” Anna said. “Are you all right?”

Castiel didn’t respond. He felt like there was a hand around his throat.

Anna looked at Michael, who, incredibly, had not looked up from his phone once. “Michael! Christ!” she said. “Will you say something to your brother?”

Michael looked up from the screen. “What?” He looked at Castiel, then Gabriel. “What happened?”

Castiel scrubbed a hand over his face. “Someone give me a ride to the airport, please.”

***

There were no seats open, not a single seat on a single plane for the next thirty-six hours, so Gabriel drove Castiel the full four hours back to Kansas City. Which, with traffic, ice, and the annual Christmas car accidents, rapidly grew and grew until they had been in the car for five hours with more to go. Gabriel’s tiny, red sports car slipped and slid along the highway, and Gabriel was white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

He made mercifully few comments, other than the fact that the drive was “the most boringest” one in the country, and, “It’s fuckin’ Christmas! Where the hell are all these goddamn people going?”

Castiel sat miserably in the passenger seat, making an occasional, half-hearted offer to drive, which Gabriel brushed off.

“Jesus, this really is the armpit of the country,” Gabriel grumbled. The stretch of I-70 was horribly straight and flat, with porn store and strip club billboards appearing in equal proportion to the anti-abortion and Jesus-Saves signs.

“We can stop,” Castiel said. “For the night. It’s late.” _And we’ve been drinking,_ he didn’t add.

“Nah, I’m wired. We’ll power through.”

“I’ll pay for the hotel. You can have your own room and everything.”

Gabriel looked at him with a grin. “Really. I’m fine.” He shook his head, and looked back at the freeway. “Besides. I don’t want to stop out here. Kali will slit my throat if I bring back bedbugs.”

Castiel watched the upcoming billboard – _Abortion Stops a Beating Heart!_ He scowled. And after that – _Mr. Spicy’s Gentlemen’s Club._ “I went too far. I shouldn’t have brought up the affair.” _Lacey’s Adult Shop – Next Exit. Church of the Living Water – Exit Two Miles._

Gabriel sighed, blowing air out through his pursed lips. “Well… they did everything but call you a faggot. I think he deserved it.” He shook his head. “They got a lot of nerve, actin’ all holier-than-thou.” He sat forward, stretching his back. “I wouldn’t worry too much. With Michael and Anna crappin’ out all those kids, ya know? The line of kings is preserved. Who cares what the rest of us do?”

Castiel shook his head, not ready to joke about it.

They were finally pulling up to the house when Castiel realized he hadn’t called Dean, hadn’t even texted him to let him know he was coming home. He’d been too wrapped up inside his own head. It was almost two in the morning, and the porchlights were off. The whole house was dark.

“Uh… he’s, uh… he’s here, right?” Gabriel said. He was visibly exhausted, and Castiel felt like a shit for not insisting to drive part of the way.

Dean’s car was parked in the driveway, next to Castiel’s morose-looking truck. “Yes. I have my keys, anyway.” 

Gabriel parked on the street in front of the house, and they climbed out of the car. The street was dead quiet, not even a breeze rusting the frozen grass.

“Ah, fuck, it’s cold,” Gabriel said, and popped the trunk.

A light turned on inside the house, glowing soft behind the curtains. And then the porchlight turned on, and the front door opened, and Dean stepped out. He looked sleep-rumpled and plainly confused, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, hastily pulled-on jeans.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered.

“Hey!” Dean called, stepping down from the porch. His face split into a grin. “What are you doin’ here, stranger?”

“I…” Castiel said, and his voice stuck in his throat. Dean’s grin faded.

“Cas, what happened?” he said.

The emotion welling up in Castiel reached a peak. “It was awful,” he got out, and wrapped his arms around Dean, biting back a single sob.

“Shit, Cas!” Dean said, his arms going around Castiel.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Castiel said, gathering himself. He wiped his face on his sleeve, and started to step away, but Dean wouldn’t let him go.

Gabriel walked up to them, dragging both of their suitcases. “Don’t mind me, just the pack mule coming through,” he said.

Castiel blushed. “Ah, um… Dean, this is my brother. Gabriel. Gabriel, this is-…”

“Dean Winchester,” Dean said, and shook Gabriel’s hand. Gabriel tried to smile, but was clearly struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Great to meet you under these pleasant circumstances,” Gabriel said.

Dean led them inside, and turned on the living room light.

“You need to crash?” Dean said, and pointed up the stairs. “Guest room is upstairs.”

“I’m aware,” Gabriel said dully. He climbed the stairs, lugging his suitcase up with him. “Nighty-night,” he said over his shoulder, and disappeared upstairs. A moment later, the guest room door opened and shut.

Castiel leaned against the wall, and covered his face with his hand. He felt Dean’s arms go around him again, holding him like a ship’s anchor.

“Okay?” Dean said, quietly.

“I just want to go to bed,” Castiel said. Dean took his hand and led him up the stairs and into their room, like he was a lost child. The covers were thrown back from where Dean had hastily gotten out of bed earlier, and Castiel stripped to his skin and climbed into the bed, tucking the comforter around his body like a cocoon. The sheets were still warm. Dean kicked his slippers off and changed back into sweatpants. He got into bed beside him, then shut out the light.

In the dark, he said, “You wanna tell me what happened?”

Castiel shook his head, but said, “I told Gabriel about you. Last night. And then tonight I… told my parents.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “They reacted poorly. Even my father. I wasn’t… I guess I wasn’t expecting it from him. And I… was stupid. I brought up something from his past and threw it in his face.” Once again, Castiel’s spite had run away with his mouth. He felt his eyes burn again, but he was too exhausted to cry. “I’m furious with myself,” he admitted. A spiteful shit, yet again.

Dean rubbed his back. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and he genuinely sounded so.

“I just couldn’t stand it for another minute. I couldn’t have them try to set me up, or… or call you my roommate. Not one more time.” He shook his head. “You deserve more respect than that.”

“Cas,” Dean whispered, and moved forward and kissed him. “Love you.”

Castiel traced his fingers over Dean’s cheek. It was warm. “I love you.”

Dean pulled Castiel close to him, kissed him again. Castiel shifted, urging Dean on top of him.

“Need you,” Castiel murmured. “I want you to do me.”

Dean kissed his throat softly, his hands moving down Castiel’s body, calluses on his bare skin. “Need me to take care of you, baby?”

Castiel felt warmth bloom inside of him. He and Dean were not much for pet names, but when Dean used them, it hit something deep inside him. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Your, uh.” Dean paused. “Our guest…?”

Castiel pulled Dean against him, and whispered in his ear. “You’d better stay quiet.”

Dean laughed softly. “I can be quiet. Can you?”

Castiel slipped his hands up Dean’s back, tugging his shirt up over his head. “We’ll see.” He pushed a hand between their bodies to cup Dean’s cock through his pants, found him already hard. “Oh, you’re…”

Dean laughed again. “Well, I saw ya strip down before ya got in bed. It’s automatic.” Dean got his sweatpants off, and Castiel heard him open the drawer in the bedside table. “Glove?” Dean murmured.

“No.” Castiel wanted all of Dean’s skin against him, completely uncovered. He heard the cap on the lube open, and felt Dean’s slick fingers pressing back behind his balls. Castiel slid down the bed a little, moving his hips so that Dean had easier reach. Dean’s touch against his hole made him gasp.

Dean kissed his collarbone. “Been a minute, huh?”

“Yes.” Cas took a slow breath. “Do it.” Dean slid a finger inside him. “ _Mmh.”_ Castiel laid back against the pillows while Dean fingered him, feeling languid. Dean took his time, moving to two, stretching and pushing slowly. When Dean was pushing in a third finger, Castiel said, “You can go faster.”

“We got all night,” Dean said, and kissed his throat. “No need to rush. You ain’t done this in a while.”

Dean stretched him with three fingers for a few minutes more, working Castiel’s cock in time with the movement of his fingers.

“You ready?” Dean murmured, his mouth near Castiel’s ear.

“Yes,” Castiel said. He slid a leg up around Dean’s waist. “Give it to me.”

Dean smiled against his skin, and withdrew his fingers. And then Dean’s hard cock was pressing inside of him.

Castiel gasped. “ _Ah! Dean!_ ” he grunted, and Dean shushed him quickly. “S-Sorry!”

Dean pressed his lips to Castiel’s, his hands going tight around Castiel’s hips. “Shhh!”

Castiel shook his head. “I can… _God,_ Dean,” he whispered. “I forgot… I forgot how good you feel inside me.”

“Fuck…” Dean growled. “Christ, Cas…” He took a shaky breath, fucked Castiel slowly. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. You good?”

“Yes. Yes. Go on.” Dean held on to Castiel and started to fuck him in earnest. His cock was like a white spike of pleasure inside him, and Castiel pushed down to meet his thrusts, the sound of Dean’s bitten-off grunts spurring him on. Castiel hadn’t been fucked in a long time. They rarely did it this way, not because Castiel didn’t enjoy it, but simply because Dean loved getting fucked so much more.

“Feelin’ good?” Dean breathed. “Okay?”

Castiel let out a quiet, “Mm-hmm.”

Dean’s hand ran up his waist, over his chest, down around his thighs. “Feel so good.”

Castiel could hardly speak. Dean’s voice, rough, close, was like a tether in his chest. “You, too,” he whispered. His cock was so hard, and he finally gave in to the urge and wrapped his hand around it, stroking it as Dean thrust into him. “Dean. _Dean…!”_ He was starting to breathe hard, his balls drawing tight against him. “C-Close…!”

He felt Dean’s hand pushing his own out of the way, and Dean’s fingers wrapped around his cock. Castiel felt his body bow up off of the bed, and he came hard.

“Fuck. _Fuck!”_ Dean panted into Castiel’s throat. “Cas. Ah, _Cas._ Gonna cum…!”

Castiel tightened his tired legs around dean’s hips and hissed, “ _In me.”_ Dean groaned quietly, squeezing his arms around Castiel’s body, and fucked him until warm cum splashed Castiel’s insides.

Castiel reached up and pressed a hand to Dean’s chest, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. Dean’s hand came up to cover his, and Dean bent down and kissed him again.

***

Castiel slept like the dead. When he finally dragged his eyes open and looked at the clock, it was after ten.

He crawled out of bed, wincing at his sore ass, and yanked on some clothes. He felt slow and half-blind in the dim gray light. It was cloudy out, and the sparse remaining snow had hardened into ice chunks in the grass. As he walked down the stairs, he realized the tee-shirt he’d pulled on was Dean’s, a battered Iron Maiden shirt with holes in the hem.

Dean was in the kitchen, working at the stove. He looked over his shoulder as Castiel walked in.

“About time,” he said, with a wry grin. “I was just about to drag you out of there.” He picked up his pan, and slid a pristine omelet on to a plate, then set it on the table next to a pale cup of coffee, already heavy with cream and sugar. “Merry Christmas.”

Castiel gave him a weak smile, and took a careful seat at the table. “Thank you.” He pulled Dean down for a kiss. “Merry Day-after-Christmas.”

Dean studied him. “You aright?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes.” He picked up his coffee, and then he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Dean sat beside him, and dug into his own omelet, which was stuffed with meat and cheese. Dean stretched out his legs under the table, and pressed his ankles to Castiel’s, and Castiel pressed back against his legs. They ate in quiet, until Castiel heard footsteps on the stairs.

Gabriel wandered into the kitchen, in red pajama pants and a worn Loyola University sweatshirt, fumbling his glasses over his ears.

“Shit! I’ve got calluses on my ass from sittin’ in that car,” he grumbled. “Also, good morning, blah blah blah. I know it’s not Christmas anymore, but let’s keep the spirit going, huh?”

Dean chuckled, and stood up to go to the stove. “You hungry?”

“Starvin’ to death over here, Dean-o.”

“What do you want in your omelet?”

“Well, whatcha got?”

Dean rattled off the options – Gabriel requested spinach, mushrooms, and cheese. He sat at the table, and started dumping sugar into his black coffee.

Castiel watched him for a moment. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you drive me back.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I wasn’t gonna make you stay there. Wasn’t too happy to stay there myself.”

“How are you going to get home? What is it, nine hours to Cincinnati from here?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Ah, well. I’ll stop off in La-Dump and make sure Mom didn’t walk into the river with rocks in her pockets.” He waved a hand and sipped his coffee, then dumped in more sugar. “And then back to good ol’ Sin-City-Naughty.”

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.”

“Thanks.” Gabriel looked at him. Quietly, he said, “Dad’ll figure it out. He’ll get his head on straight.”

“Mmh.”

“And Mom… I mean, shit. Who cares what Mom thinks? She’s nuts. Doesn’t matter what you do – she’d still be pissed. Even if you were with a girl; still wouldn’t be the right girl. You know? Remember what a bitch she was to Anna when she and Mikey got married? And now she pisses herself whenever she sees those grandkids.”

Castiel scrubbed his hands over his face. He didn’t have the luxury of future grandchildren to warm the frost.

“Okay,” Gabriel said. “How ‘bout this. I’ve got a plan. Next Christmas, I’ll knock up Kali to really shake shit up at home. But then the Christmas after that, you have to tell them that you’re transitioning into a woman.”

Castiel snorted out a laugh, and held a napkin to his face.

“Better not,” Dean grumbled from the stove, and flipped the sizzling omelet in the pan.

***

Cas’ brother hung out for another two days. The weather warmed, the persistent ice started to melt, and he took off in his little red Matchbox car.

Cas remained morose, barely reading, not even watching TV. It took another week for him to work out of his funk. His classes started up again in January, he got back to terrorizing his students, and he clearly started to perk up. Dean wished he knew what he could do to help, if there was something he could do reassure him or make him feel better. But, hell. What did Dean know about fixing family shit like that?

Winter’s last cold grasp finally broke in April, and gave way to spring. The cloudy, cold skies turned blue and sunny, and the temperature rose.

Dean had expected things to change when they moved in together, but he was surprised by how much they stayed the same. He didn’t have to go somewhere else to do laundry, didn’t have to figure out when he was going to go back to his apartment for a change of clothes. The biggest change was paying the bills – instead of paying everything individually, his money went into a shared account and everything was paid out automatically (Cas’ choice). Dean could live with that – though he did peak at the online statements once in a while.

He should have known the honeymoon couldn’t last.

Dean took advantage of the good weather and left work early one Friday. He trimmed the hedges in the backyard, then mowed the front and back lawn. It was humid and sunny, and Dean was overheated and sweating, but there was a rattling sound coming out of the Impala’s engine that needed to be investigated. He was still out on the driveway in the early evening, hunched over the carburetor, when he heard Cas from the porch.

“Dean?” Dean straightened up, wincing at his sore back, and looked over at him. Cas was leaning out of the front door, frowning. “Your phone is ringing. It’s rung four times.”

Dean frowned, and wiped his hands on the grease rag. “It show who it is?”

Cas nodded slowly. “It says ‘Dad.’”

Dean dropped the towel in surprise. “Shit,” he whispered, and jogged up the porch stairs and passed Cas to get into the house. His phone was buzzing on the coffee table, and he caught sight of the caller ID – _Dad._

He took a slow breath, and answered. “Hey, Dad,” he said.

“ _Why the hell you ain’t pickin’ up when I’m callin’ you?”_

Dean’s stomach twisted. He could tell immediately that Dad was drunk; he was slurring and loud. Quietly, he said, “I asked you not to call me when you’ve been drinkin’.”

He was aware of Cas’ eyes on him, and he turned away and walked back out of the house on to the porch. 

“ _Oh, don’t even gimme that shit. I ain’t drunk a bit.”_

Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay. Sorry, then. I was outside, workin’ on the car.” He straightened. “The Impala.”

Dad snorted. _“What’d you do to it, now?”_

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “No, I didn’t…” he started, and stopped himself. “Nothin’, Dad.”

“ _Christ. Shouldn’t have left it with you, huh?”_

“I’m just checkin’ some stuff out. Maintenance. Ya know?”

Dad snorted. “ _Uh-huh.”_

Dean walked down the porch steps, but stayed in the shade of the house, out of the sun. “So, what’s goin’ on, Dad? Did you need somethin’?”

“ _Watch your fuckin’ tone with me.”_ Dean leaned against the house, and dropped his head back against the wall. _“Sound like Sam. Spoiled little shit. Where the hell’s he at?”_ Dean pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment, and shut his eyes. “ _Ungrateful brat’s what he is. Both of ya.”_ He heard Dad take a drink of something, and he straightened up.

“Dad, I really… I can’t. I have to go.” Dean ran a hand back through his hair. “You can gimme a call tomorrow. I’m not gonna do this with you when you’re drunk.”

Dad continued, undeterred. _“Ungrateful shits. After all I’ve done for ya. Unbelievable. Shoulda known – Bobby told me you moved in on someone.”_

Dean frowned. “What?”

“ _Said you leeched on to some guy. Moved into his house and everything.”_

“Dad, are you at home?” Dean said, forcing the conversation away. Goddammit, Bobby. What the hell was he thinking? “Where’s Kate?”

Dad coughed, a muffled, wet sound, and said, _“Took the kid to the doctor. Says he’s sick.”_ And then, almost as though he were talking to himself, he said, _“Fuckin’ bullshit, this goddamn brat. Think he might be turnin’ out queer. Just like his older brother, huh?”_

Dean stood frozen, uncertain for a moment what exactly he had heard. Because he couldn’t be hearing what he thought he was hearing.

“I… you…” As Dad’s words settled over him, Dean became so angry for a moment that he thought he might go blind. “You’re talkin’ about Adam? Kate’s son?”

Dad snorted. “ _Yeah. Adam.”_

“’Like his older brother.’ Are you…?” Dean swallowed. “Are you talkin’ about me? You’re sayin’ he’s my little brother? Adam is your son?” His voice was raising, his heart pounding. “Are you fuckin’ tellin’ me that Adam’s your son?”

_“Jesus Christ. You’re still a whiney little shit, ya know that?”_ Dad slurred. “ _Yeah! He’s mine. Least that’s what she says, anyway.”_

“Why the… why… you…” Dean’s vision shrank. He couldn’t get a full breath in. “Why the _fuck_ wouldn’t you tell me that?” he finally got out. “Why wouldn’t you have told me that from, from the beginning?” Dean demanded.

“ _What the fuck does it matter? Why do you give a shit?”_

“Why do I give… are you kidding me?” Dean said, his voice coming out strangled. “Are you out of your mind? How… how could you not tell me I had a brother? A fucking _brother? Dad?”_ Dean’s heart was in his throat. He was so dizzy for a second, he really thought he might drop.

“ _Are you gonna start cryin’ or somethin’? Christ.”_ Dad coughed again, hard and loud. He was talking again, not really to Dean, just talking. “ _Fuckin’ crybabies, all my sons. Fuckin’ crybaby queers.”_

Dean didn’t know what to do. There was no point in continuing, so he hung up the phone, and sank down into a crouch.

A brother. Another brother, under his father’s control. Adam was, what… five? Six? God. _God._ Dean felt his strength leave him, and he dropped to sit on the grass.

Dean’s thoughts raced. Was it even possible? John with another son? Yes, easily. Dean hardly saw his father at all after he and Sam were left at Bobby’s, barely heard from him. Hadn’t seen him at all in years. John could have been doing anything in that time.

Had it been on purpose? Had she done it to him?

He felt a sudden, searing hatred for Kate Milligan. He knew his anger was misplaced, but he couldn’t believe it, could _not_ believe that she had given John another son. Another brother, who Dean had never seen. Never met. He was so angry, he was almost nauseous with it. He couldn’t get a handle on himself, and his heart was beating out of his chest.

“Dean?” Cas was beside him, suddenly, kneeling in the grass next to him. He was still in his suit pants and button-down, and his feet were bare. Dean looked up at him, startled. “You’ve… been out here a while. Are you all right?”

“I’m… fine.” Dean got to his feet, his knees shaky, phone still clenched in his hand. He was hot and sweaty from sitting outside, and he walked into the house. Cas followed him. 

“What happened?” Cas said. “Dean?”

“I don’t wanna fuckin’…” Dean felt the phone slip out of his hand, and it thumped on the rug. He left it there. “I don’t wanna talk about this.”

“I…” Cas stared at him. “I think we need to talk about this. You’re a mess. What happened?”

Dean shook his head. “He’s just… drunk. That’s all. I dunno. It’s not. I dunno.” He felt like he couldn’t get a full breath into his lungs. He needed water. Needed a bath. To go to bed. Forget this all happened.

Except he couldn’t forget. His brother. He had a brother out there, in the ether, who he’d never met. But maybe that was better – better not to have been around him, maybe he’d have a chance to grow up normal.

“Dean…” Cas’ hand wrapped around his arm. “Are you-…?”

Dean shook Cas’ hand off. “Don’t fuckin’… don’t. Don’t touch me.” He needed to get _away,_ just _away._ He went into the kitchen, and picked a glass out of the drying rack, which he filled with water. It was lukewarm, but he gulped it down anyway.

“ _Hey.”_ Cas was behind him, insistent, somewhere between worried and pissed-off. “What in the world is going on with you? You were out there for almost half an hour!” he said. “Is your father all right? What did he say?”

“Don’t. Cas, _don’t,”_ Dean said, slamming the glass down. His hand was shaking. “I need you to back off me. Okay? Please. Just... please.” 

“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Cas said. He was shorter than Dean, but Dean felt like he was ten feet taller than him. Between him and the doorway. “Why are you acting like this?” 

“Just let me… just let me…” Dean couldn’t get his words out, just stuck a hand out in front of him to keep Cas back. _Let me by. Let me out. Let me go._

“You’re acting completely deranged right now, you know that?” Cas said, stepping closer, too close, too close. “Will you just calm down?” He reached out, his hands going around Dean’s arms again.

Something in Dean snapped like a twig. “ _I said get the fuck off me!”_ Dean knocked Cas’ arms away and shoved him hard.

Cas let out a soft sound of surprise and stumbled back, then fell. The back of his head clipped the edge of the counter, and he crumbled to the ground in a heap.

Dean was too shocked, too horrified to move. He stood for a moment, his mind utterly blank, jaw hanging open, watching Cas lay there, his eyelids fluttering. Dean hadn’t. He had not. That hadn’t just happened. Dean felt like he was floating outside of his body, not really there, in the kitchen, he did not just hurt Cas.

And then Cas groaned quietly, and sat up, slowly, pushing himself up with his hands. He sat back against the cabinet, blinking slowly, his eyes on nothing. He reached back and touched the back of his head, gasping at the pain, and then brought his hand back. It was bloody. “Dean…?” he rasped, and Dean collapsed to his knees beside him.

“Oh, my fuckin’ God,” he said, and reached out to support Cas’ head. “Lemme… lemme see, oh, _fuck,_ Cas, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what… Oh, my God, I can’t believe… I didn’t mean to, to…” Dean was shaking, his entire body trembling, even his voice.

“I’m, I’m okay, I’m all right,” Cas got out, and Dean couldn’t tell if he was trying to convince him or himself.

“You’re fuckin’ bleeding, Christ, I think you got knocked out, you need to go to the hospital-…”

“I am _not_ going to the hospital, I’m fine-…”

“I can’t believe I just, I just-…”

“ _Just shut up for a second,”_ Cas snapped, and Dean bit his lips together. Cas was breathing hard, hunched over, clearly in pain. Dean couldn’t see the back of his head from where he was kneeling, but it was bleeding down Cas’ neck, into the collar of his shirt. There was a small puddle on the ground from where he’d been laying. From where Dean pushed him. “Just be quiet. Just… just give me a minute. I’m fine. I’m okay.” Cas swallowed, and took a slow breath. “Mmh. I’m… a little dizzy.”

Dean grabbed the hem of his shirt and wiped his face. This was it. He’d done… the unthinkable. This was the end.

“I’m so s-sorry,” he whimpered.

Cas shut his eyes. “Can you please… get me a towel. And some ice.”

Dean jerked to his feet, and grabbed a clean dish towel, and a blue ice pack out of the freezer. He knelt down next to Cas again, wrapping the towel around the ice pack. 

“Can you tell me how bad it is?” Cas said, and slowly leaned his head forward, wincing. Dean reached up to hold Cas’ hair out of the way, but his hand was shaking so badly that he had to try twice. The cut was deep, and long, traveling up the back of Cas’ head. Tears burned in his eyes. He’d done this. He’d just. He’d just.

Dean’s voice wouldn’t come out steady. “This looks deep, Cas, and it’s b-bleeding a luh-lot.”

Cas sat up slowly, and took the towel from Dean. “Shit.” He pressed the towel-covered ice against the back of his head, and crawled to his feet, clearly unsteady. Dean followed, holding Cas’ arm. “I… I think I need you to drive me to the ER.”

***

Friday evening, and the ER was crammed like an on-ramp during rush hour. Dean was sitting next to Cas in one of the uncomfortable waiting-room chairs, almost numb. Somewhere beyond panic, beyond worry and guilt.

The drive to the hospital had been horrible and slow, stodgy with traffic. Cas sat next to him utterly silent, holding the ice pack to the back of his head with his eyes shut. Dean hadn’t been able to hang on to a single thought.

There was no coming back from this. Maybe Cas would have to stay overnight, and Dean could do him the courtesy of packing up and leaving before he had to return home. Panic bulged inside him, like a scream rising in his throat. His eyes shut.

“Dean…” Cas said, quietly, and Dean realized he was squeezing Cas’ hand as hard as he could. He released Cas’ hand quickly – he didn’t get that privilege anymore.

“S-Sorry,” he mumbled, but incredibly, Cas chased his hand with his own and wrapped his fingers into Dean’s again. Dean felt like he couldn’t remember how to breathe normally, had to force himself to take air into his lungs.

Cas grunted, and pulled the ice pack away from his head for a moment, wincing. He was still bleeding, dark red staining the back of his shirt, the stark white towel now a dirty, rust brown.

“I can…?” Dean got out, and held out his free hand for the ice pack.

“Thank you.” Cas gave him the ice pack, and Dean freed his hand from Cas’, and carefully pressed the bloody towel to the back of Cas’ head. He grit his teeth for a moment, and then his face relaxed.

_I did this. I did this,_ Dean thought, his heart pounding hard. But Cas just laid his hand over Dean’s leg and gave him a gentle squeeze.

They finally brought Cas back to Triage after two hours. They sat him on a narrow bed and the doctor, a big old bald guy with glasses and a paunch, took a look at the back of his head while Dean hovered at the edge of the curtained-off space.

“Yee-ouch,” Dr. Corman said. “How’d this happen?”

“I-…” Dean started, but Cas cut him off.

“I slipped in the kitchen,” Cas said. “We spilled water. Earlier. And didn’t get it all wiped up, I guess. And… I didn’t see it. The puddle. And I slipped and hit my head on the counter.”

“Oh-ho!” Dr. Corman said. “I’ll be that hurt.”

“It… did. Yes.”

“How is your pain, now?”

“My... it hurts. But it's not unbearable." 

“Any nausea?”

“Yes, a little.”

The doctor shined a light in both of his eyes, frowning. “Did you lose consciousness?”

“I…” Cas’ eyes flicked to Dean, and back to the doctor. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. My vision went black for a few seconds, but, I don’t think so.”

“Sounds like you may have a concussion. We’ll do an x-ray to make sure everything’s tip top. And that cut’s going to need some stitches.”

Dean’s vision went dark, briefly, and he was certain he was going to throw up.

They cleaned Cas’ cut thoroughly, gave him an x-ray (all normal), diagnosed him with a mild concussion. They shaved a small patch on the back of his head, and gave him five tiny stitches, then covered them with a bandage that probably wouldn’t stay very well, and a prescription for extra-strength Tylenol, which he didn’t fill.

“We have plenty of Tylenol at home,” Cas said, once they finally returned to the car, four hours later.

“But it’s… for the pain from the stitches.”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s ‘cuz they numbed your head up first!” Dean said, hearing the hysterical edge in his voice.

Cas gave him the shadow of a smile. “I’ve had stitches before, Dean. I’m fine.”

Dean drove them back home – back to Cas’ house. It was dark when they pulled into the drive way. Dean turned off the engine, and sat, staring up at the house. He waited for Cas to tell him to get lost, or… something. Anything.

“Um.” Dean swallowed. His throat was bone-dry. “Sh-should I…?” _Should I leave?_ He couldn’t get it out, couldn’t will the words past his mouth. He was a coward.

Cas pushed his door open, and hot air flooded into the car. “I can’t believe it’s still so warm,” he murmured, and climbed slowly out of the car. Dean hustled out of the car, around to Cas’ side to help him stand. Cas gave him a weak smile.

“I’m all right,” he said quietly, but Dean shook his head, and guided Cas inside. Cas went straight upstairs, and Dean followed him, still feeling like he was floating, like his head wasn’t connected to his shoulders. He watched Cas change out of his clothes, and Dean pulled out a tee-shirt and pajama pants for him.

“Thank you,” Cas said. He pulled on the pajamas slowly, still seeming unsteady on his feet. He went into the bathroom and nudged the door shut, and Dean hovered awkwardly at the foot of the bed, listening to the water running. Cas emerged a minute later, and climbed into bed.

“You need anything?” Dean said, and Cas shook his head. “Food, or…?”

“No. I took some painkillers. I just want to sleep.”

“Okay.”

Cas gave him another tired smile. “You could probably use a shower,” he said, looking at the smudges of grease on Dean’s arms that had been there for hours. Dean looked down at his arms, at the grit under his fingernails. Had it really only been that afternoon that he had been out on the driveway, working on his car? Before this mess?

“Okay,” he said, and turned around and walked into the bathroom. He stripped out of his clothes and let them slump onto the floor, then turned on the shower and climbed under the water. He scrubbed his hands and arms, and then slowly sank down to sit on the shower floor.

He’d really done it. He’d hurt Cas. He’d hurt someone he loved. The one thing he swore he would never do, and he’d done it. He was slime, worse than slime. He wanted to drop dead. He’d expected Cas to tell him to fuck off the second they got home, but he hadn’t, and so Dean didn’t know what to do.

Dean sat so long that the water started to run cold. Dean dragged himself out of the shower, and dried off in the steamy bathroom. Cas appeared to be asleep in the bed, and so Dean pulled on a tee-shirt and sweatpants, and considered his options. He was exhausted, wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed next to Cas and sleep for a week.

He turned around and left the room, went down to stand at the bottom of the stairs. He’d sleep on the couch, he thought, and see what happened tomorrow. Wait until Cas came to his senses and tell him to get the hell out.

Dean couldn’t put it off. He moved slowly through the living room, into the kitchen.

A rust-brown smear of dried blood was congealed on the floor. Another smudge of blood was on the edge of the counter, where Cas’ head had hit. Where Dean had shoved Cas and Cas had fallen and hit his head.

Dean felt his entire body trembling. His gorge rose, and he gagged, almost vomited. Quickly, he dug under the sink, pulled out some bleach cleaners, and scrubbed the blood off of the floor and the counter. The smell burned his nose, made his eyes tear. He scrubbed and scrubbed until every last hint of blood was gone, and then he went to the sink and washed his hands furiously, until a raw spot appeared on the back of his right hand.

He shut off the sink, and wandered blindly back into the living room, where he sank down on the couch.

He hurt Cas. He could have really hurt him. He could have killed him. Because he was angry.

Dean leaned forward to hold his head in his hands. They still stank like bleach and soap, and they were shaking, his heart beating out of control. Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

And then he heard Cas’ voice in his ear. “Dean? Can you hear me?” Dean thought Cas must have been saying his name for a while.

Dean gave him a jerky nod.

“Dean, you’re… you’re _shaking._ I think… are you having a panic attack?”

A panic attack? It felt like he was having a fucking heart attack. “Dunno. I don’t know.” He didn’t think he could breathe.

A hand curled into his, and Dean grabbed on to it, squeezed it like it was a life line, and then a hand slid around the back of his head. “Push back. Can you feel my hand, Dean? Push back into my hand.”

Dean tried, forced himself to sit up, push into the warm of Cas’ hand where it rested on the back of his head.

“Will you breathe with me? Breathe with me, Dean…” And then Cas was counting quietly in Dean’s ear, directing him to breathe in and hold his breath and breathe out, in and hold and out, in and hold and out, until Dean could get a real breath in on his own and was aware of how he was once again squeezing the circulation out of Cas’ hand.

“Cas?” he got out. Cas was sitting beside him on the sofa, his face lined and tired. Cas reached up to touch Dean’s cheek.

“I’m right here.”

“Cas.” Dean felt his body tip, his head drop onto Cas’ shoulder. “I’m… I hurt you.”

Cas ran his fingers through Dean’s hair. “It was an accident.”

“I coulda fuckin’ killed you. I coulda… I could have crippled you or somethin’.”

Cas let out a quiet sigh, his breath hot against the back of Dean’s neck. “There’s no point in dwelling on that, Dean. It was an accident.”

“I had no right.”

“You asked me to give you some space. You begged me to, and I should have listened. _I’m_ sorry, Dean.”

Dean felt tears dribbled down his cheeks to soak Cas’ shirt. “You should tell me to go.”

Cas’ grip went tight on the back of his neck. “I will _not,_ ” he hissed.

Dean felt a sob rip its way out of his throat, and he wrapped his arms around Cas’ body and clung to him. Cas kissed his hair, his face, held on to him.

Dean felt utterly wrung out, formless. Cas eventually pulled him up, and led him upstairs, into their room, and sat him on the bed. Dean climbed under the blankets, and Cas got into bed next to him. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas, and held on to him.

***

Dean woke to Cas getting out of bed. He blinked at the clock – it was just after three in the morning. Cas went into the bathroom, and a minute later, Dean heard the toilet flush and water running. Cas returned, and slid back into bed.

“You okay?” Dean said.

“Mmh. My head hurts. I took some more Tylenol.”

Dean nodded. He felt a little more together than he had before, like his head was on straight.

“Do you mind if I turn on the light?” Cas said.

“No, go ahead.” 

Cas’ bedside lamp flicked on, a dim yellow glow. Dean shut his eyes until they adjusted to the light.

“Sorry,” Cas said. “I’m a little dizzy right now. I just need to get my bearings.” He sat back against the headboard, rubbing his eyes. Dean moved to sit up beside him, and Cas trailed his fingers down Dean’s arm. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I…” Dean shook his head. “Just still… can’t believe I pushed you. Can’t believe it. And you had to…” Dean stared at the blank TV screen. “My dad called. Today. Er… yesterday, I guess.” He rested his head back against the headboard. “I told you he was livin’ up in Minnesota?”

Cas nodded. “Right. With his girlfriend and her son.”

“Christ.” Dean pressed his lips together. “He called and… he was drunk. No surprise. He was goin’ off, bein’ shitty, and he… he let slip that he’s, uh… That Kate’s son is his son. Adam. Adam is his son.”

“And… your brother,” Cas said, slowly. “Oh, my God, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean rubbed he bridge of his nose.

“Oh, my… _God,”_ Cas said again.

“I just… freaked. I can’t believe he…” Dean stared up at the ceiling fan. “I can’t believe he has another kid. I can’t believe he’s around another kid.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry, Cas.” Dean shook his head. “You had to lie for me. You had to lie because of something _I did._ My dad, he… he did some… some bad shit. And I told myself years ago that no one would ever have to lie to cover up what I did. That I would never raise a hand to someone I loved. Never. Not ever. _”_

Cas was quiet for a long minute. “Did you…” he started, stopped and then said, “Did you have to lie for your father often?”

Dean nodded, feeling distant. Feeling exhausted.

“Why…?”

“Why didn’t I do anything about it?”

“ _No._ You were a _child._ I would never ask that. Why didn’t _Bobby_ do anything?”

Dean grunted. “’Cuz Bobby didn’t know how bad it was. Not really. Not ‘til I was… fourteen? Fifteen?” He frowned. “Fourteen.”

Cas took a few slow breaths beside him, and Dean braced for the question that he knew was coming. “What happened when you were fourteen?”

Dean swallowed, and took a breath, and told Cas what happened.

***

**18 years ago.**

The guy was maybe eighteen, maybe nineteen. Maybe older. He was staying six doors down from them in the corner room of the motel. Dean heard someone call him Jeff.

Dean had tried to keep himself from looking, but he couldn’t help himself. Jeff was tall, and handsome, with shaggy blond hair and frayed denim jacket that was tight across his broad shoulders. Sometimes Dean would see him across the parking lot, at the shitty picnic table set under a sappy pine tree, smoking a cigarette. Sometimes Jeff would nod, or give him a friendly wave, and Dean would force himself to look away.

Dean was fourteen going on twenty, as Bobby liked to say. He had filled out, gotten strong, and was only a little shorter than Dad now. He’d been climbing the walls in the tiny motel room – a real small piece of crap somewhere near the border of Montana, with two double beds, and a TV that got three fuzzy channels.

Dad was in a bad way these days, drinking for the record. Dean kept Sam out of the room with him most of the time, walking around town, sitting at the park and reading (it was summer, so they didn’t even have school to escape to). That night Dad had passed out hard and early, and Sam was reading on the other bed when Dean announced that he was going for a walk.

The sun was low in the sky, but the air was still warm. As soon as Dean left the room, he saw him. Jeff, sitting on the ground next to the picnic table, discreetly drinking a beer out of a paper bag. Dean nodded to him – Jeff nodded back – but Dean didn’t go over yet. He went for a walk, not long, just down the street and back. Not even twenty minutes. When he came back to the parking lot, Jeff was still there. Jeff saw him, gave him a small wave.

Dean hesitated for a moment, and then walked over, urged on in a way he didn’t recognize. He passed the Impala, which was parked close by, and stopped by the table. “Hey,” he said, jamming his hands in his pockets.

Jeff looked up at him, grinning. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

Dean shrugged. “Nothin’.”

Jeff reached into the paper grocery bag that was sitting next to him in the dirt. He pulled out a can of cheap beer, and held it up. “Want some beer?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” He took the beer and snapped it open, then took a long drink, thinking of the way Jeff’s lips looked pressed to his own can. He hunched down and sat on the ground. The patchy grass was dry and dead, and the dirt was half-covered with pine needles. “Thanks, man.”

Jeff sipped his own beer, watching Dean inscrutably. “You guys on vacation or somethin’?”

Dean snorted. “Nah. My Dad’s workin’ up here. We’re just stayin’ a few weeks.”

“Just your dad?”

“My brother, too.”

Jeff nodded, took another swig of beer. “I’ve been seein’ you around for a while.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I, uh. I noticed you, too.” He took another gulp of beer, his face flooding with heat.

Jeff considered him silently. It was past sunset, and it was getting dark. The streetlights in the parking lot turned on. Dean could hear the traffic on the nearby street petering down.

“You got a girlfriend?” Jeff spoke so suddenly that Dean started. The question caught him off guard.

Dean shook his head, felt himself start to blush, his heart pound harder. “You?”

“Nah,” Jeff said. Dean watched him take another drink. “I don’t really like girls much.”

Dean was shocked by the admission. Hadn’t known at all how to respond. The guy was admitting it, just like that? Out in the open? “I like girls,” he said, finally. Then, heart beating furiously, he added, “But, I…” He shrugged. “Dunno.”

A small, smug smile appeared on Jeff’s face, like he’d settled a bet with himself. “Oh, yeah?” he said, his voice dropping lower, making Dean shiver. “Well, you like kissin’?”

Dean shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, sure.” He was just close enough to Jeff that Jeff could reach out and, brazenly, brush a thumb along Deann’s bottom lip. Dean’s face was hot, he was almost dizzy; he didn’t want to pull away – wanted to lean into the touch instead.

“You ever kissed a guy before?” Jeff said, sliding his hand down the side of Dean’s neck to rest on his shoulder. Dean shook his head numbly. Jeff’s smile broadened. “Wanna try?” His hand was warm where it rested against Dean’s throat.

“I…” Dean’s thoughts were stuttering in his head. He licked his lips, and then quickly dumped his beer down his throat. The alcohol rushed into his head. “Yeah.”

Jeff drew him closer, until Dean was sat right beside him on the ground. Dean looked over at the run-down motel; there wasn’t a soul around, not even at the little reception room at the other end of the long building.

“Don’t worry,” Jeff said. “No one’s gonna see.”

“I wasn’t-…” Dean said, but stopped when Jeff cupped his cheek, and guided him closer. Dean could smell what must have been aftershave, musky and heavy, which sent a zing through his stomach, between his legs.

Jeff’s lips touched his tentatively at first, then firmly when Dean didn’t pull away. Stubble scraped across Dean’s chin. He tasted like cigarettes, which almost made Dean wrinkle his nose.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ cute,” Jeff said, and Dean blushed harder. He didn’t resist when Jeff pulled him closer, pulled him into his lap. “Can’t believe you walked over here. Been watchin’ you for days.”

“R-Really?”

“Hell yeah. Don’t act like you don’t know how you look.” Jeff’s hand dropped between Dean’s legs and squeezed, hard, and Dean pulled back from him.

“W-Wait,” he said. It was too hard, too fast, and the beer was making him a little blurry. “Hang on-…”

“Relax,” Jeff said.

“No, I mean it, lemme up-…”

Dad’s voice was suddenly over his shoulder. “The hell is this?”

Jeff shoved Dean off of him, and Dean saw John’s hulking shadow against the frigid white light of the streetlights. An icy hand went around his throat.

Dad stared down at him, looking bleary and red-eyed, like a furious grizzly bear. Dad’s hand gripped Dean’s tee-shirt, and he yanked him to his feet. Jeff bolted immediately, faster than Dean could blink. Dad didn’t say a word, just stared down at him. And then he was dragging Dean across the parking lot by his arm, jerking it so hard Dean thought it would break. Dad yanked him into the hotel room and slammed the door, making the window rattle. Dean caught a glimpse of Sam, sat on the bed with a book in his lap, looking up in shock.

“What the fuck did I just see?” Dad snarled, his fist clenched in Dean’s shirt, pulling him close. There was enough whiskey on his breath to start a fire. “What the fuck was that?”

“Nuh-nuh-nothing! It was nothin’, Dad!” Dean got out. His guts were watery, knees practically knocking together.

Dad drew his fist back and punched him, full in the face, under his eye. Everything went black, and Dean hit the carpet.

“ _Dad!”_ Sam cried.

“You left your brother alone to, what? Go play grab-ass with your faggot boyfriend?”

Dean had to take a few hard breaths before he could answer. “I… no… I didn’t… I don’t know him, I…”

“Are you a little faggot, too? That what this is?” Dean tried to get up, but Dad’s boot caught him in the side, and he stayed down. Pain cut into his ribs, and Dean curled up around his stomach. His father’s rage was like a living thing, and Dean flinched away from it. He heard the sound of Dad undoing his belt, and he looked up at him. “Pants down,” Dad said, and slid his belt out through his beltloops.

Dean felt sick with fear, his throat dry. “Dad, no-…!”

Dad punched him again, and Dean’s face hit the carpet. And then Dad grabbed his shirt and yanked it up, and then jerked his pants down – his underwear went with it, he felt so exposed. Before he could even catch his breath, the belt came down across the middle of his back, a pure line of fire that Dean felt radiate through his entire body. It almost made him throw up. Tears burst into his eyes, dribbled down his cheeks as he tried to hold them back.

Dad had used his belt on Dean before, but never like this. The belt came down again and again and again, on his back, his legs, his ass, his shoulders, cracking against his skin like a pistol going off. Dean was writhing with the urge to crawl away, had to fist his hands in his hair to keep from reaching back to try to stop the fall. The pain was so intense that he could hardly even breathe enough to cry out. Again again again again.

Distantly, he heard Sam screaming: “Dad, stop! Stop!”

Dean couldn’t resist, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything but lay there. Lay there and take it. He broke out into a sweat, felt his vision shutter like he was about to pass out.

“ _Leave him alone!”_ Sam screamed, and the next blow didn’t fall. Dean turned his head, and through his swollen eye, he saw Sam practically hanging from Dad’s arm, stopping him. Dad snapped his arm back, hurling Sam into the dresser. Sam’s head cracked against the knob of a drawer, and he immediately started to cry, clutching the back of his head.

“Sammy…!” Dean bit out.

Sam’s hysterical sobbing seemed to bring Dad out of his fog. He dropped the belt, and walked over to kneel by Sam. He looked over Sam’s head while Dean pulled down his shirt, hitched up his pants and underwear. The pain was unbelievable; it stole his breath. 

Nausea hit him like a truck, and his body heaved as his vomited on the carpet, spewing the entire beer he’d guzzled and their meager, gas-station dinner.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry!”

Dad looked at him, his face twisted. “Christ. I got two _fuckin’_ crybabies for sons.” He picked up his belt, and Dean flinched away, afraid Dad was going to hit him again. But Dean threaded the belt back through its loops. “We’re leavin’,” he announced, not even looking at Dean. “Pack your shit up.”

***

It took a long time for Dean to pack his stuff. He had never unpacked, not really, but moving was hard. He had to drag his bag out to the car, each step sending pain shearing up through his body.

Dad shoved a still-sniffling Sam into the front seat, and Dean carefully edged himself into the back. He couldn’t sit, and had to lean on his side, braced up on his hand. He gave up once the car started moving, and laid carefully on his stomach across the back seat. Dizzy and sick, Dean shut his eyes and wished he could sleep.

The next thing he knew, Dad was slapping him awake.

“Wake up.” Dad slapped him again, not hard, just enough to sting. “Jesus. Are you still fuckin’ cryin’?”

“Nuh-no,” Dean said, and wiped his face.

“What’s that?”

“No, sir.”

Dad turned away. “We’re here. Get out.”

But where was here? Blearily, Dean crawled out of the car, his muscles weak and protesting. He could feel the welts across his back, throbbing with his pulse, and his mouth still tasted like vomit.

When he realized where they were, Dean’s stomach dropped to his boots. The familiar blue house stood before him, windows lit, surrounded by chain link fencing and the salvage yard. They were at Bobby’s.

Dean had to steady himself against the car. Dad was going to tell Bobby what happened. Dad was going to tell him, and Bobby was going to hate him. Bobby wouldn’t want to talk to him anymore. No more staying at the salvage, no more phone calls, no more burger dinners, no more watching cartoons while Bobby let Sam pick through his library. No more of Bobby asking him, “Are you doin’ all right, Dean?” and no one else would ever ask. 

Dean was almost panting with panic. His feet wouldn’t move, it was like they had been glued to the gravel. Finally, Sam took his hand and gently tugged him forward to the porch.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam said, and Dean squeezed his hand and moved. Climbing the stairs was a nightmare; his jeans were chafing against the welts on his legs, and the skin on his back was tight and almost felt like it was tearing.

John knocked brusquely on the front door, and after a minute it creaked open.

Bobby squinted out at them, and sighed. “John.”

“Bobby.”

Bobby stepped out of the way and as they came inside, he caught sight of Dean’s face.

“Christ on His throne,” he said, shutting the door. “What happened?” He took Dean’s face in his rough hands, gently turning him to examine the bruise and black eye.

“He’s been fightin’ and runnin’ around wild,” John said. Dean looked at him, stunned, and Bobby released his face. “He’s outta control. I can’t have him with me right now.”

Bobby frowned. “You been fightin’, boy?” he said, disappointment clear in his voice. Dean felt absolutely crushed.

“I…” Dean looked at Dad, but Dad wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, Bobby,” he said. Tears were on his face again, and he wiped them away.

Bobby shook his head. “You oughta know better. You’re supposed to be lookin’ out for Sam. Settin’ a better example.”

Dean nodded, and stared at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said again. He’d never been more ashamed in his life to be breaking down like this.

Bobby jerked a finger toward the stairs. “Git. Go on to bed.”

Dean nodded, and started toward the stairs.

“Come, Sam,” Dad said, and took Sam by the arm, steering him toward the door.

“What?” Sam ripped his arm out of Dad’s grasp. “No. I’m not leaving Dean,” he snapped. He moved close to Dean and Dean wrapped his arms around him out of reflex. Dean could hardly breathe. It was happening. Dad was taking Sam away, was leaving Dean by himself. He would be alone. It was happening, and it was his own fault.

His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment. “I… I’m suh-sorry S-Sammy,” he got out. Tears were dripping onto his cheeks, and he no longer had the wherewithal to wipe his face.

“Sam,” Dad said, fury evident on his face. “I told you to get your ass in the car.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “And I said _no!”_ Sam’s voice cracked when he yelled back.

“You little shit-…”

“ _Fuck you!”_ Sam snarled. Dean couldn’t believe what he was seeing, couldn’t believe his ten-year-old brother was screaming at Dad like this in front of Bobby.

Dad’s hand snapped out and cracked across Sam’s cheek, and Sam gasped. It had been a long time since Dad had hit him – Dean couldn’t even remember the last time it had happened. Sam cupped his face and started to cry, started to absolutely wail. Dean pulled him back, holding him tightly. He couldn’t let go, because then he would be gone forever.

Bobby grabbed John by the shoulder and yanked him back. “You just better settle right down,” Bobby said firmly, forcing John to look him in the eye. His voice was low and angry. “I told you never to hit them in front of me.”

“Fuck you, Singer.”

Bobby looked between Sam, who was hysterically sobbing into Dean’s coat, Dean, who was crying silently into Sam’s hair, and John, who was practically vibrating with irritation and anger. “All right. Let’s everyone just calm the hell down,” Bobby said. “John. Shit. It’s past midnight. We’re all tired. Why don’t you sleep on it, huh? Let them get some rest, and then we can talk about it in the mornin’.”

John stared at Bobby, and then looked at his watch, brow furrowed. Some of the tension bled out of him, and he shook his head. “I gotta get to Santa Fe by eight PM.”

“Just let ‘em both stay, then. Huh? It’s fine.”

Dad stared down at both of them for a long moment, and Dean was certain he was going to say no, demand that Sam leave with him. But then he nodded. “Fine. I’ll be back in a few weeks.” With that, he turned around and left the way he came in, slamming the door behind him.

Bobby snorted. “Yeah, bye to you, too,” he mumbled.

Sam was still crying, but Dean took his face in his hands. “Lemme see. C’mon, lemme see.” Sam sniffled, and looked up at him. There was a red splotch on his cheek from where John slapped him. “You’re fine. Hardly even left a mark,” Dean said, and tried to smile. He could feel his lips pulling at the swelling in his own face. “Big faker. You’re fine,” he said again.

“Yuh-you’re nuh-nuh-not,” Sam said, and shoved his face back into Dean’s coat.

“What the hell is goin’ on?” Bobby said, his hands on his hips, sounding utterly exasperated. “What was all that about?” 

Sam turned his face away from Bobby. “Uh… nothin’, Bobby,” Dean said. “We’re just tired, is all.” Bobby frowned deeply, and it made Dean’s gut wrench. “Can we just… go to bed?” he got out.

“Wanna go to bed,” Sam mumbled.

Bobby nodded slowly. “Aright, then. Go on.”

***

Dean laid awake most of the night, finally dozing off around dawn. He awoke later in _pain._ He’d felt pain before, of course, but this was a new animal entirely. He could barely move without tearing up, couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand, couldn’t lay in bed, couldn’t even breathe. He also felt sick, like he had a fever.

Tentatively, he reached back around his side and under his tee-shirt, and ran a careful finger over his back. His skin was still covered with raised, angry welts.

Ice. He just needed to ice it, bring down the swelling, bring down the fever.

He took a slow breath to prepare himself, and pushed up on his arms, nearly biting through his lip to keep quiet. Sam was still asleep, curled up and facing the other wall.

Dean tiptoed downstairs, listening carefully for Bobby, but the house was quiet. He made it to the kitchen, his movements slow and purposeful. The fridge was an old-style boxy thing with a latching handle, and Dean was going to have to pull it hard to get it open.

_Okay. I can do it,_ he thought, and wrapped his fingers around the latch. He took a slow breath, and pulled. Pain shot through his shoulders and the door popped open. Dean stood there for a moment, breathing hard. _You’re okay. You did it._

Dean thought he saw the corner of an ice pack near the back of the freezer. He reached back into the icebox and got his fingers around the bag, and pulled it toward himself slowly. He saw it wasn’t an ice pack, but a bag of frozen vegetables. Fine; it would get the job done.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was behind him, quiet and nervous.

“Y-Yeah?” Dean said. He looked at the bag – a very freezer-burned _Frozen Vegetable Medley._

“What are you doin’, boy?” Dean turned, and saw Bobby walking into the kitchen. “Uh… ya hungry?” he said, walking over to the freezer. “I can make those for ya if you ya want?” he said, and reached for the bag.

Dean flinched back from him, completely unintentionally. The old bag slipped out of his hands and hit the floor. It ripped, and sent icy carrots, peas, and cauliflower skittering out across the linoleum.

“Dean!” Bobby said, holding his hands up. Dean pressed his forehead against the fridge, breathing hard.

“I… I-I…” Dean’s mouth wouldn’t work right. “I’m sorry, I… just th-think I’m sick. That’s all.”

“What do ya mean?” Bobby said. “Are you nauseous? Feel like you’re gonna puke?” He reached out to touch Dean’s forehead, and Dean felt himself flinch again. “Dean! What’s the matter with you, boy?”

“Nothin’,” Dean bit out. “Never, never mind. I’m okay.”

“He’s lyin’!” Sam cried from his vantage point on the other end of the room.

“ _Sammy,”_ Dean growled, and shook his head.

Sam ignored him. “He’s lyin’, Bobby!”

“What do you mean?” Bobby said, looking between Sam and Dean, mystified. “Will one of you tell me what the hell’s goin’ on?”

“ _Dad hit Dean with his belt and now Dean’s sick and he’s gonna die!”_ Sam wailed, and started to cry.

“He what? He _what?”_ Bobby said. He took Sam’s shoulders, and pushed him over to the stairs. “Sam, go upstairs. _Go. Upstairs._ Calm down. Okay? Take a breath. Now go upstairs. I need to talk to Dean.” Sam finally allowed himself to be shoved away, and Dean heard his feet on the stairs.

Bobby turned to him.

“Let me see, Dean,” Bobby said, but his voice was soft. Dean shook his head, feeling his eyes start to fill. “It’s okay. Just let me see.”

Dean couldn’t move, felt frozen in place. Bobby’s hand went to the hem of his tee-shirt, and he slowly lifted it up over the waistband of his sweatpants, baring his back. The shirt was barely halfway up, and Bobby’s hand started to shaking.

“Oh… Jesus,” Bobby hissed through his teeth. He lowered Dean’s shirt. “You ain’t been fightin’,” he said, shaking his head.

Dean sniffed. “Nuh-no, sir.”

“Your daddy did this.”

“He didn’t… he, he didn’t…” Dean covered his face with his hands. “He was just drunk. Okay? He’s never… he never did it like that before, never that hard, it… he…” Overwhelmed, Dean heard himself groan.

“Hey. It’s okay. Take a breath, Dean.” Dean felt the soft cloth of Bobby’s red handkerchief wiping gently over the swollen bruise on his face where tears were cutting a path. “I can’t imagine the pain you’re in right now. It’s gonna be okay. I’m right here.” Dean leaned his head against Bobby’s shoulder and let out a sob. Bobby’s hand came around the back of his head, and he cradled it gently. “I got ya.” Dean bit back more sobs, furious with himself, crying like a fucking girl this whole time. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna take you to the hospital, and they’ll fix ya right up.”

Dean shook his head. He couldn’t imagine more people seeing this. What if he had to explain why it had happened? What he’d done to deserve it? “No, Bobby,” he said.

Bobby’s eyebrows came together. “Dean-…”

“Bobby, _please,”_ Dean sobbed out. “Please don’t make me go.”

Bobby sighed. “Aright. Aright.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “You’ve got a fever, and we need to get that swelling down. Let’s at least get some ice on your back.”

He took Dean upstairs, and helped him get down to his tee-shirt and boxers, then laid him down in bed on his stomach. He laid wide, flat blue ice packs across Dean’s shoulders, the middle of his back, and then another across his butt and the backs of his thighs. Dean pressed his face into the pillows, shame coming over him in thick waves.

Dean heard the sounds of a pill bottle opening. “Here. Take these, okay? And drink some water.”

Dean took the pills from Bobby, and put them on his tongue, then swallowed with a sip of water.

“Tylenol, for your fever. And painkillers from my surgery. They’re probably gonna knock you back out soon.” Bobby rested a cold hand on the back of Dean’s neck. “You tell me if anything happens. If your pain gets worse, or if you start pissin’ blood or somethin’. Okay?”

Dean sniffed. “O-kuh-kay.”

“You be honest with me, Dean. All right? You tell me if it gets worse.”

“I w… I will, Buh-Bobby.” Dean shoved his face back into the pillows, and shut his eyes. Bobby’s hand was still resting on the back of his neck.

When Dean opened his eyes again, it was pitch black in the room. The ice packs had been removed from his skin, and the door was shut. Dean felt groggy and sick, barely able to keep his eyes open, but the pain had faded, blissfully, into background noise.

In the darkness, something shifted, and he heard Sam whisper, “Are you gonna die?”

Dean shook his head. He was so sleepy, it was hard to keep his eyes open. “Nah,” he said.

Sam sniffled. “Can I get in?”

“Yeah.” Dean carefully inched himself closer to the wall so that Sam could climb under the blankets next to him. “Where’s Bobby?”

“Downstairs,” Sam said. “He’s been drinkin’ outta the bottle for an hour.” Quieter, so quiet that Dean had to strain to hear, Sam said, “I think he’s cryin’, Dean.”

Dean shut his eyes. “Shit.” He shifted, tried to sit up, btu it felt like weights were attached to his arms and legs. “I gotta. I gotta talk to him. It’s… it ain’t that bad.”

“Shut the hell up. You’re… you’re real messed up. Have you seen it? Looks like you got run over.”

Dean grunted, and turned his face toward the wall. He wasn’t sure if he responded to Sam before he fell back asleep.

***

Dean’s back was treated late, and was slow to heal. He was sick and feverish for another day before he finally started to feel better. After three days of being confined to bed and sipping soup, he was starving. He crawled out of bed slowly – the welts had faded, but now his back was covered in purple and blue-black bruises, so it still hurt. Luckily, Bobby was pretty loose with the painkillers. Dean left the room, still careful and deliberate with his movements, and started to head downstairs to scrounge for food.

He heard Bobby talking, and he froze, listening, when he realized he was talking to Sam.

“….-know your brother would sooner bite his tongue off than tell me what happened with him and your daddy. Do you know what the hell happened? Was your daddy drinkin’?”

Sam was quiet for a moment – Dean could practically hear him working out in his head how to handle the question. Never tell anyone outside the family how much Dad drank… but wasn’t Bobby family? Softly, Sam said, “Yessir.”

“A lot?”

Softer, Sam said, “Whole lot. He passed out. And then he woke up and went out to the car for somethin’. Prob’ly for another bottle. And then when he came back, he had Dean with him, and he punched Dean in the face and said, um, he said that Dean left me alone to go play with his faggot boyfriend, and then he said Dean was a faggot, too. And then he kicked Dean and started beltin’ him over and over, like a hundred times, and I-…” His voice hitched, and Dean realized Sam was crying. He put his face in his hands. “I tuh-tried to get Dad to stop but he pushed me and I huh-hit my, my head, and then he stopped and Dean threw up.” Sam took a few shaky breaths. “And then Dad called us crybabies.” Sam sniffed. “Bobby, I don’t… what’s a faggot?”

Dean felt tears in his eyes. Now everybody knew. He wished he was dead. He wished Dad had just killed him.

Bobby’s voice surprised him – he sounded angry, really pissed off, he was almost yelling. “It’s… it’s a _bad_ word, Sam. One of the worst. Okay? You better never, _ever_ say that word again! Especially to your brother.”

“Why?” Sam said, sounding scared.

“Because it’s one of the meanest things you can call a boy! Your daddy had no… he…!” Bobby let out a breath. “Sorry, Sammy. Sorry. Uncle Bobby’s just upset. Ya aright? I scare ya a little?”

“N-No…”

Dean crept back up the stairs, and sealed himself in the bedroom.

***

They’d been at Bobby’s for almost a month. Dean’s back was healed, and he was able to spend his days helping Bobby out in the salvage yard. Late summer was slinking into early fall, and Sam had started to whine about wanting to shop for school supplies.

School. The thought made Dean cringe. It had been impossible for him to keep up in class the last year, and he was supposed to be starting high school soon. It was going to be a nightmare, and God only knew where they’d be in a few weeks.

He was laying out on the couch with Sam one afternoon, watching one of Bobby’s seven channels, while Bobby compared notes on his inventory list.

“Dean,” Bobby said. “Can you read this contract out to me while I look this over? I can’t get my damn head around it.”

“Uh…” Dean walked over to Bobby’s desk, and took the paper he was holding. “Sure.” He looked at the paper, saw words he didn’t recognize like _undersigned_ and _heretofore._ “The… uh…”

“Can you see it okay?”

Dean shrugged, heat creeping over his face. “Yeah. I… uh. I just… don’t… know all those words.”

Bobby looked up at him, a strange look on his face. He set the paperwork down, and then he stood up and walked over to the book shelf, selected a slim novel, and opened to the middle.

“Read this to me. Right here.” He tapped in the middle of the page, and gave the book to Dean.

_‘The lieutenant, returning from a tour after a bandage, produced from a hidden receptacle of his mind new and portentous oaths suited to the emergency. Strings of expletives he swung lashlike over the backs of his men, and it was evident that his previous efforts had in nowise impaired his resources.’_

“’The l… luh… li…’” Dean blushed, squinting at the word. He didn’t know it – it was long and strange, but he thought maybe he’d seen it somewhere before. “Uh… ‘The li-ee-uh-tenat…?’” He looked up at Bobby, who was watching him, stone-faced and somber.

“Lemme see,” Sam said, reaching out to tug at the book.

“I can do it,” Dean said quickly, putting up an elbow to block Sam’s hand. His face felt hot, the words jumbling across the page like tiny spiders.

“Sam, let your brother do it.”

Sam scowled, and crossed his arms.

Dean cleared his throat. “‘The lee-uh-tenat, returning from a t… tower…? Uh, a _tour_ after a bandage, produced from a hidden ree… uh… ree-kept-a… uh, _receptacle_ of his mind new and por… t… tent… _por-tent-us?_ Por-tent-us oaths sweeted to the emergency. Strings of ex… explosions? Uh… expel… expletives? He swung lashlike, uh, over the backs of his men, and it was ev… eh-vih-dent that his previous efforts had in no-ways impaired his re…so… resources.’” His face was on fire, and he felt sweat forming on his forehead.

Bobby took the book, and closed it.

“Uh… s-sorry, Bobby,” Dean said.

Bobby shook his head. “Nothin’ to be sorry about. Y’all need to get your asses back into school, is all.”

“Yeah, duh,” Sam grumbled.

***

The rumble of the Impala yanked Dean out of sleep. He sat up in bed, his heart in his throat. The Impala drove up in front of the house, and the engine cut, and then a minute later, he heard a heavy knock at the front door. Dean climbed out of bed and cracked open the bedroom door; he could hear voices downstairs. As quietly as possible, Dean walked down the stairs one at a time, and crouched down at the very top of the railing, where he was still out of sight of the front door.

“…-can wait ‘til morning, whatever it is. Why don’t you head upstairs and get some sleep?” 

“No, I’m gonna wake ‘em up now,” Dad said, voice low and gruff. “We’re goin’ now.”

“It’s late. They need their sleep.”

“I can decide what my kids need, thanks.”

Bobby regarded John, and then said, “Come into the kitchen with me. Just for a minute.” He walked away from John, into the kitchen, and John followed him. Dean moved down the stairs until he could see into the kitchen. He could see his father’s back, but he couldn’t see Bobby. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

“What does it look like? I’m puttin’ buckshot into this rifle so I can shoot you in the ass as you leave my house.”

Dean felt the air move beside him. Silent as a cat, Sam sank onto the stairs beside him, listening intently.

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” John snapped.

Quieter, Bobby said, “I saw what you did to that boy. If you think you’re leavin’ this house with them, you got another thing comin’.”

“You got no goddamn right-…”

Bobby cut him off. “Sam needs his eyes checked. He needs braces. And Dean needs to be in school. He struggles with simple math. He’s fourteen and he can’t hardly fuckin’ _read,_ John!” They stared at each other silently, and Bobby said, “When was the last time you took either of ‘em to the doctor? The dentist? When was the last time you bought ‘em new shoes?”

Slowly, John sank into one of the chairs, and put his face in his hands. “I… I don’t…” He laid his hands on the table. “Sometimes I just… I lose track. Of those things. I c… I can’t… I don’t know. I can’t keep ‘em in my head. And I… I always say it’s the last time. Every time. But…”

“I know, John,” Bobby said. “Okay? I know, better than anyone. And you’re welcome to stay. All of ya. There’s plenty of work here for ya if ya’d like, or there’s jobs in Sioux Falls proper. But those boys are getting’ enrolled in the local school this week, and they’ll be stayin’ _here.”_

John sat for a long minute. Then he said, “Dean can stay. Sam comes with me.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, _no_? They’re my boys. You can’t keep them from me.”

“Oh, by all means. Call the police. Tell ‘em I’m a kidnapper. You can use my phone, if ya like. Call ‘em up, and I’ll tell ‘em exactly what you did. I’ll tell ‘em exactly what you did to that child.”

Sam’s fingers wrapped around Dean’s arm, and Dean was horrified. Bobby almost sounded near tears.

“This is fuckin’ bullshit,” John snapped. “I haven’t… I didn’t…”

“I don’t give a shit,” Bobby hissed. “You listen here. You lay a hand on either of those boys ever again, and you’ll regret it. You hear me, Johnny? ‘Cuz I’ll kill ya myself. I will put a bullet in you and not lose a wink of sleep over it.”

“Oh, fuck you,” John said.

Bobby said something, practically whispered it, and Dean couldn’t make it out. Bobby and Dad were quiet, and Dean and Sam held their breath.

Finally, Dad mumbled, “The Impala. Something’s goin’ on with the transmission. I’m just gonna leave it here.”

After a moment, Bobby said, “All right.”

“You got somethin’ drivable?”

Bobby cleared his throat. “Reckon so.” He paused. “Why don’t you come on out to the yard.”

Before Dean and Sam could scamper back up the stairs, Bobby walked past to the front door. He pulled it open and stepped outside, down the porch steps. John followed him, but paused in the doorway. He turned, and saw Sam and Dean crouched on the stairs, staring back at him. He didn’t say a word, he just turned away.

John Winchester walked out the door, and Dean didn’t see him again until he was 22.

***

**Three years ago.**

“I wanted to call him back,” Dean said. “I wanted to tell him that… I wanted to go with him. I would help him, with the dentist appointments. I’d take care of getting the shoes and the school supplies. I’d pay attention in class, get a tutor or somethin’. But… I didn’t.” He shook his head. At some point, Cas had slipped his hand into Dean’s, and Dean squeezed it. “He’d done that kinda shit before, ya know? Broke my nose once. Slapped me around a lot, usually just when he was drunk. It was all right, though. He kept his hands offa Sam. I think I only saw him hit him a couple times our whole lives. That was what really mattered. But today… fuck. When he called, he went off again, ya know, callin’ me a queer and stuff. Started callin’ Adam a queer, too. Some six-year-old kid. It just… I completely… I dunno. Freaked out.”

Beside him, Cas sniffed, and wiped his face.

“Aw, Cas…”

“I can’t believe… I…” Cas shook his head. “I knew. I knew something had happened, but I didn’t think… Jesus, Dean.”

“Cas, it’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t matter. You’re still allowed to hurt.” Cas slid an arm around Dean’s torso to hold him. “And it wasn’t that long ago.” Cas brought Dean’s hand up to his lips, and kissed his knuckles. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” 

Dean didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

“Bobby really pulled a gun on him?”

Dean snorted. “I don’t think it was the first time.” 

Cas fingers slid up Dean’s hand to rest on his wrist. “Did he… was that when you hurt your arm, too?”

Dean swallowed. “Nah. That was. Later.” 

Cas nodded. “It’s okay, Dean. You don’t have to tell me.”

“It…” Dean shook his head. He was feeling strange again, numb and distant. “This… guy. I was seein’. When I was… uh… nineteen, or, twenty, maybe.” Cas squeezed his hand. “He was way older, and he liked bein’ real rough, just, too rough. Just another guy who I let beat the shit outta me. I let him do whatever he wanted ‘cuz I was fuckin’ dumb. And one night he put my arm behind my back and twisted it until it broke.” Dean shrugged. “So, I don’t like that.”

“Oh, Dean.” Cas tugged Dean down so that he could hold him. Dean rested his head against Cas’ chest, and shut his eyes. He felt ashamed, exhausted, completely wrung-out. Cas was injured, and here he was, comforting Dean when it should have been the other way around. When it was Dean’s fault in the first place.

Cas ran his fingers through Dean’s hair. “I’m sure this is a silly question, but have you ever thought about talking to someone about all of this?”

Dean frowned. “I just talked to you about it.”

“I mean a professional. Therapy. Counselling.”

Dean looked up at him, bewildered. “I’m not crazy,” he said plainly.

“I…” Cas rolled his eyes. “Dean. I know that.” He touched Dean’s cheek, ran his thumb over his stubble. “Therapy isn’t just for ‘crazy’ people. You’ve gone through some pretty severe trauma.” Dean scowled, but didn’t argue. “It’s clearly affected you. It _has,_ don’t brush that off. There’s nothing wrong with talking about it. Even if you hadn’t pushed me, after hearing what you went through, what’s you’re still going through… It might not be a bad idea.”

Dean’s mouth twisted. “I’m not sayin’ no. But… that stuff’s expensive, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want you to worry about that. If you need medical care, you’ll get it,” Cas said fiercely. And then he added, “End of discussion.”

Dean didn’t want to fight, so he said, “Okay, Cas.” He swallowed, and said, “Can I see the…?”

“The…? The stitches?”

“Yeah.”

Cas sighed. “Only if you promise not to be a martyr about it.” He pulled away from Dean, and sat up so that Dean could see the back of his head. He peeled the bandage up, and Dean could see the five neat stitches down the length of the long cut. Dean touched Cas’ hair, and shut his eyes.

“It was an accident, Dean,” Cas said, and carefully set the bandage back into place. “I’m not angry about it. All right? And I don’t want you to feel badly about it, either.”

“Christ, Cas,” Dean murmured. “How can I not?”

Cas leaned down and kissed him softly. “All right. Feel badly about it. Just don’t lose your mind over it.”

“Okay, Cas.”

In the future, when Dean's hand reached the back of Cas’ head, sometimes his fingers would dance away from the scar. Sometimes they would find it outright, and trace it slowly. It was something to be cherished. Respected. A reminder – _I am capable of terrible things. I cannot forget that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Alcoholism, guns, child abuse, domestic violence, homophobia, panic attacks, issues of mental health. 
> 
> The book Bobby gives Dean is The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane. 
> 
> Leave a comment... if you dare...


	7. a strange place.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why are we the way that we are?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, and commented. You're all wonderful. 
> 
> Seriously, note the tag changes and mind the triggers listed at the end.
> 
> XOXO,  
> Rosemary

_You start wars everywhere you go  
_ _You take shots at everyone you know  
_ _And no one can help you  
_ _Cause you refuse to receive it yourself_ _  
  
_ _Devil, don't ever let me go!  
_ _I've been looking for a tornado  
_ _Chaos is something I've been missing_

**13 years ago.**

“Hey, Dean?” Bobby called. Dean had returned home late, around two in the morning. Bobby woke up when he heard the front door shut, heavy footsteps on the stairs, the door to Dean’s room open and close. He would have been content to let Dean sleep late, but he’d heard Dean rise not long ago and get into the shower around eight. Bobby went to Dean’s door now, and pushed it open. “Do you know…?”

“Shit!” Dean said, yanking his towel back around his waist. “Bobby! Give a guy a little warning!” The towel covered his hips, but Bobby could still see his chest. And the perfect, fist-shaped bruises; three of them decorating Dean’s ribs. The ice pack Dean had been holding plopped to the floor.

“S-Sorry,” Bobby choked out, and backed out of the room quickly. He snapped the door shut, and completely forgot what he was going to ask.

Fuck, he was a dumbass. Dean was 19 – he was due some goddamn privacy. Bobby hurried back downstairs to his desk, where he sat, feeling chastised. Remembered he was going to ask Dean if he knew when the owner of the Buick was coming in; it hardly seemed important now.

Dean came downstairs a little later, fully dressed and looking wary.

“You, uh… needed somethin’?” he said, quietly.

Bobby looked at him. “Really?” he said. “We gonna talk about this?”

Dean’s face colored. “’Bout what?” Bobby stared at him, and Dean shrugged. “It’s nothin’. Just… a… ya know. Fight. The other night.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Bobby said. “Dean… I… I can’t pretend I didn’t see that. I can’t pretend like I don’t know what’s goin’ on. I know you’re an adult, but… Hell, boy. You need to stop fuckin’ around with men who talk with their fists.”

Dean bristled, his eyes going wide. “What the… what, what are you talkin’ about?”

“Do you think I’m dumb?”

Dean huffed. “No.”

“I don’t care, Dean. I don’t care if you’re… ya know…” Bobby forced himself to keep going, despite how awkward it felt. “If you’re, if you’re _experimenting_ , or _gay,_ or what ever this is.” Dean winced. “But this isn’t okay.” Bobby took a slow breath. “Do you remember when you were a kid? And I’d call whatever roach motel your daddy had you stayin’ in that week?” Dean watched him impassively. “And almost every time I’d call, you’d tell me how worried you were that somethin’ bad was gonna happen?”

Dean’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“Well, _I’m_ worried. I’m terrified that somethin’ horrible is gonna happen to you.” He shook his head. “Just because Sam’s growin’ up, doin’ his own thing, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t need his brother-…”

“Sam doesn’t need me,” Dean said sullenly. “Doesn’t need his deadbeat brother hangin’ around him.”

“ _Well, I need you, goddammit!”_ Bobby said. Dean jumped at the ferocity in his voice. “I need you safe! And alive, and, shit, maybe even happy! Not miserable and covered in _bruises!”_ He jerked to his feet, and Dean flinched. “You don’t let anyone treat you like that. You hear me? Not your friends, not your lovers, not your _family,_ no one! You’re not some little girl. You’re a _man._ Understand?” He sank back into his chair, spent, embarrassed at himself for his outburst. He dropped his face into his hands. “If somethin’ ever happened to you… I…”

He felt Dean touch his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” Dean murmured. “I’m… I’m gonna deal with this. Okay? I’ll. I’ll take care of it.”

Bobby sighed. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t wanna… you’re an adult. I don’t mean to pry into your… private business. But you deserve better, boy.”

Dean didn’t respond.

***

Dean got to Alastair’s place after ten. He’d waited for Bobby to go to bed – didn’t want him to worry.

Alastair, silver-haired, still in his suit jacket, pulled him inside. He lifted Dean’s shirt right away, examined the bruises he left on Dean’s ribs.

“Shit. Are you all right?” he said, rubbing a hand up the skin of Dean’s back. “Nothing broken?”

“Don’t think so,” Dean said, surprised at his concern. He must have been worried. They’d been fucking for six months, ever since Alastair picked him up after a late shift at the Roadhouse, and it wasn’t the first time Alastair had left bruises on him. Far from it. The other night had been the first time Dean had walked out on him over it, though.

“Poor thing. You just make me so crazy sometimes,” Alastair said, lowering his shirt, keeping his hand on Dean’s back. “Does it hurt badly? You know I can write you a prescription. Anything you need.”

“I don’t want that.” Dean shoved him a little, and Alastair took a step back, frowning. A shot of adrenaline went through him. “You. You need to stop bein’ so fuckin’ rough with me. Aright?” he said.

“Oh, please,” Alastair sneered. He grabbed Dean’s hips and yanked him close, shoving a knee between Dean’s legs, grabbing Dean’s ass through his jeans. “Don’t act like you don’t beg for it, boy.”

“Th-That’s not what I’m talkin’ about.” Goddammit. Dean was getting hard. What the fuck was wrong with him that he got off on this rough shit? “I’m talkin’ about… you need to quit _hittin’_ me. If you do it again, we’re done. Aright?” He stared at Alastair, who stared back. “Please. Okay?”

Alastair grinned slowly, and nodded. “All right. As long as you don’t give me a reason.”

“Fuck you, dude,” Dean said, and tried to pull away, but Alastair wouldn’t let him.

“Hey. Hey! Relax. I’m kidding. I just can’t keep my hands to myself when I’m with you.” He ground firmer against Dean’s groin, and Dean bit back a groan. “Let’s go make up. Hmm? You wanna make everything all right with us? Huh? You want everything to be all right?” He palmed Dean’s ass again, squeezing hard.

“Mmh. _Mmh._ Yeah. Y-Yeah,” Dean got out, and he let Alastair pull him into the bedroom. He wanted Alastair to touch him, take care of him, make it all okay. “W-Will you… be nice tonight?”

“Nice,” Alastair purred. He kissed Dean with surprising tenderness, his hand soft on the back of Dean’s head. Against Dean’s lips, he whispered, “I can be nice.” He kissed Dean again, deeper, thrusting his tongue into Dean’s mouth. Dean moaned openly, clutching Alastair’s shoulders. Alastair pushed him gently away, and said, “Now strip.”

Dean made quick work of his shirt and jeans, and then pulled off his briefs and dropped them on top of his clothes. His dick was already warm and getting hard.

Alastair looked at the bruises again. “Poor you. Poor thing. Let me make you feel all better.”

“Please,” Dean whispered, and Alastair pushed him onto the bed, pulling off his suit jacket and dropping it. He pushed Dean’s legs apart, his eyes raking of Dean’s cock, his hole. Dean couldn’t watch him – he hated being on display like this, _hated_ it. Made him feel like a thing. Not a person. Made him feel like nothing. “Get on with it,” he grumbled.

Alastair unzipped his pants and pulled out his erection, and pushed his bare cock against Dean’s hole. Dean resisted the urge to flinch away. “I should fuck you dry,” Alastair said. “I bet the pain would make you cum hard, wouldn’t it? Little pain slut.”

“No,” Dean said. “Get the lube or I’m outta here.”

Alastair grabbed he lube off of the bedside table and slicked his fingers. “I’ll bet you have someone waiting on you. Can’t go back damaged,” he simpered, and Dean was going to tell him to go fuck himself, but then Alastair’s fingers were working inside him. One, then two, and then he took Dean’s prick in his hand and worked him slow – he really was being nice tonight. Dean pulled him down to kiss him, and Alastair’s tongue fucked his mouth the same way he fucked Dean with his fingers. Then he moved down to press his lips to Dean’s nipple, grazed it with his teeth. Dean gasped, his cock jumping in Alastair’s hand.

“Uhhh… _please…_ ” Dean pushed back against Alastair’s fingers, rocked into his hand. “I’m ready, I’m ready, _please_.”

Alastair withdrew his fingers and shifted back. His cock was hard, and he moved like he was going to fuck Dean bare.

“Get a glove,” Dean said, pulling his legs closed. “Quit playin’ around.”

Alastair rolled his eyes. “It’ll feel better without it.” Dean started to sit up – so sick of this, every fucking time – and Alastair pushed him back down. “All right, all right.” Alastair pulled a condom out of his bedside table, and Dean made sure to watch him roll it on. “You think I’m so dirty?”

Dean tried to smile. “I dunno where you’ve been.”

Alastair grabbed Dean’s legs and pushed them apart, then shoved three fingers inside him _hard._ Dean grunted, wincing. “Nowhere dirtier than this hole, boy.”

“ _Ow!”_ Dean bit out, glaring up at him. Alastair eased up, fucked him a little more with his fingers, then pulled them out and pushed his dick inside. Dean grunted at the sudden intrusion, maybe less-ready than he thought. He tried to relax into it. Alastair fucked Dean slow, running his hands over Dean’s stomach and chest, pushing on the bruises. Dean batted his hands away. “C’mon, don’t.”

Alastair pulled out. “You better turn over so I won’t play with them.”

Dean rolled on to his hands and knees. Fine. He liked it better this way, anyway. Alastair gripped his hips and pushed back in and, _fuck,_ it was good. Dean wrapped his fingers around his prick, not jerking himself yet, just holding, enjoying the sensation. Alastair was hitting his spot perfectly, and Dean pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts. Dean started whimpering as he got close to his orgasm, and he started to work his cock quickly. “Close… gonna…! _Uhh…!_ ” he got out, and then he came, spurting over his hand as Alastair railed him. “Oooh… _fuck…”_ he groaned, and dropped his head against the pillows. “ _Yes_ …”

Alastair ran a hand up his back, over his hip, and then took Dean’s right wrist and pinned it behind his back.

“You’re going to get me off now, boy,” Alastair said. Dean braced himself.

“N-Not too hard. Okay?” he said. Alastair didn’t say anything, but started fucking him hard. Dean was a little over-sensitive, and his cock went soft. It was uncomfortable but not unbearable – it was just easier to take it than fight Alastair over it. It was always like this, wasn’t it? Ever since their first time, when Alastair made a pass at him while he was bussing tables at the Roadhouse.

_Nice ass,_ he’d said, low and quiet, when Dean was picking up his empty bottle. Dean had blushed, pleased, because Alastair was handsome and older, poised and confident. Dean got plenty of looks, sure, women and men, all ages. But the men rarely commented – not out here, in Nowheresville, South Dakota. He’d held Alastair’s gaze, and grinned at him, then walked away without responding.

Alastair had been leaning against his car outside in the parking lot after Dean’s shift, and Dean had walked close to him, hands in his pockets.

_Nice car,_ he’d said, even though it really wasn’t – a Rolls-Royce Shadow from the 70’s that needed some work.

Alastair had laughed quietly. _Want to go for a ride?_ he’d said, looking Dean up and down.

Dean shrugged, and walked around to the passenger side. It had been good that night – Alastair had grabbed Dean’s thigh as they drove, sliding his hand up higher and higher until it was right on Dean’s crotch, working him through his jeans, and Dean had let him. Alastair had parked at the edge of a vacant, frozen field that had months before held pumpkins, and now looked like a cemetery, rotten plants and dried-out vines line corpses’ limbs.

_You want to suck me, boy?_ he’d said, grinding the heel of his hand against Dean’s dick. _Want to suck me dry?_

_Y-Yeah,_ Dean got out, and jerked down Alastair’s fly. He let Alastair fuck his mouth, his throat, Alastair’s hand tight in his hair.

Dean hadn’t meant to catch him with his teeth, but he’d gagged and needed air, his jaw clenching unconsciously. Alastair had yanked him up by the hair and slapped him. Dean gasped in surprise, reaching up to hold his cheek, which was hot and throbbing.

_Watch those fucking teeth!_ Alastair snapped.

_S-Sorry!_ Dean said, automatically. It didn’t even register with him, for a moment. _You… what the fuck? You just… you c-can’t…_

_Oh, baby,_ Alastair said, and pulled him close again. _I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. You just surprised me with those fangs. Are you okay? Let me see._ He pulled Dean’s hand away from his cheek, and then kissed it. _I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?_

_I…_ Dean hadn’t known how to respond; he was caught so off-guard. _I… no, I, it’s fine._

_Come here. Finish me off, and I’ll make it up to you._ Alastair stroked his cheek. _Okay?_

Dean nodded numbly, and let Alastair push him down to take his cock back into his mouth. Alastair fucked his mouth again, and Dean was mindful of his teeth. When Alastair came, Dean swallowed it without complaint.

_What a good little slut you are,_ Alastair grunted. Dean frowned – he didn’t like that. But then Alastair was pushing him down on to his back, undoing his fly, wrapping his fingers around his cock, which was still hard as a rock. He’d jerked Dean hard and quick, played with his ass, and Dean barely lasted a minute before shooting off like a rocket.

Alastair drove him back to the Roadhouse, had given him his business card. _You can call me sometime,_ Alastair said, grinning, and then drove off into the night, leaving Dean dazed.

He shouldn’t have called. His cheek had still been smarting when Alastair dropped him off that night. Why had he? It was just nice, he thought. Having someone waiting for him. Having someone wanting him, even if he was a jackass sometimes, even if he smacked him once in a while, or punched him, or got too rough. It wasn’t a big deal, Dean had thought. He could take a hit. He could handle it.

Jesus, he was so stupid. What the hell was he doing? He wasn’t this desperate, he didn’t deserve to be treated like this. Alastair had been good at first, but these days he just treated him like a fuck-doll.

Alastair pushed his arm up higher on his back, yanking Dean out of his thoughts.

“H-Hey. _Hey,”_ Dean said. “That hurts. Cut it out.” Alastair squeezed his wrist, and pushed it up even higher, made Dean gasp. “Alastair! Stop, fuckin’ _stop! That hurts!”_ Alastair fucked him harder, leaning his weight against Dean’s arm, pushing him down on the bed. His wrist was on fire, his elbow wrenched back, his entire arm felt like it was about to fall off.

“Shut the _fuck up…”_ Alastair grunted, fucking Dean like his cock was a knife, like he was stabbing him. “I’m gonna cum in this tight little ass… straighten you _out…_ ”

Dean felt half-mad with panic, his free arm scrabbling for purchase on the bedspread. “Stop, _fuckin’ stop! Please! It fuckin’ hurts!”_ Alastair leaned more weight onto his arm, and Dean felt something snap, something shift, holy fuck, holy _fuck._ His vision shrank to pinholes, he thought he might vomit. “ _You’re breakin’ my fuckin’ arm!”_ Dean shouted, and reared his head back, trying to shake Alastair off. The back of his head connected with Alastair’s nose, accidentally, but with the desire effect. Alastair jerked back, grunting, and released him. Dean curled around his arm – his wrist fucking _hurt,_ something was really wrong with it. Dean could see bruises forming already, and he was having trouble moving his fingers. He turned around, and saw Alastair’s nose was bleeding, dripping down on to his shirt.

“Alastair,” Dean said, holding out his good hand, feeling exposed, feeling scared. He couldn’t get his voice to come out steady. “Alastair… I, I’m sorry. I didn’t. I didn’t mean to do that. I j-just wanted you to st-stop.” Alastair swiped a hand over his face and looked at the blood in disbelief, looked up at Dean, his face pale and drawn with rage. “Don’t-…!”

“You little _bitch,”_ Alastair snarled. His fist connected with Dean’s face before he could take a breath, smashing under his eye, knocking Dean back on the bed. Dean was too stunned to react at first, and Alastair was over him, getting a second hit in to his jaw, catching him lip. Pain bloomed in his face, blood burst into his mouth. Dean laid there, shocked and dazed, blinking up at the ceiling, and then he felt Alastair moving between his limp legs.

“What are you…?” he got out, trying to sit up. Alastair shoved him back down, pushed his thighs apart. Dean tried to twist away, but Alastair held him down, kneeling hard onto Dean’s thigh to keep his legs apart. “No… you… _no!”_

“I’m not finished yet,” Alastair said. He hitched up Dean’s hips, shoved his cock into Dean like it was an icepick. Dean cried out, tried to pull away from the pain, but he was weak and dizzy, and Alastair held him down. He started to pump his cock in and out, fucking him hard.

“Get the fuck… ah! _Ah!”_ Dean couldn’t get away, couldn’t make it end. A sound came out of him, somewhere between a sob and a whimper. “ _Stop!”_ Dean got out. “ _Get the fuck off of me!”_ He punched out with his good fist, smashed it up against Alastair’s face. He caught him right on the edge of his jaw, and Dean heard a _snap!_

Alastair let out a wordless howl and stumbled back, off of Dean, against the wall. He slid down, cupping his face.

Dean laid on the bed, breathless, dizzy. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the comforter, and forced himself to sit up. Alastair let out another cry, and Dean looked blearily over at him. His jaw was sitting at an odd angle, bottom teeth jutting out past his top lip.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean said. He crawled off the bed slowly, still unbalanced from the headshots. He jammed himself into his underwear and his jeans, and pulled his shirt over his head. He stared down at Alastair, who was sprawled out on the carpet, pants still open, touching his face, his broken jaw, his eyes wide and horrified.

“Put your fuckin’ dick away,” Dean said, and grabbed the phone off of the bedside table. “I’m callin’ a damn ambulance.” 

***

Dean left Alastair’s place around midnight. The cops let him go when he insisted that he wasn’t pressing charges. His face was fucked, but Alastair had to leave with the paramedics, so he figured that was good enough. Alastair wouldn’t try anything either – if it came out that the beloved town pediatrician was fucking a teenager, he’d be in deep shit.

Dean caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror as he drove. Fuck. He had a black eye, and his lip was split. How was he going to explain this to Bobby? His wrist was killing him, swollen and purple and _hurting._ He was having a hard time moving it – even a twitch sent a shockwave of pain up his arm, made him gasp. It definitely needed a splint at the very least, and he just hoped it wasn’t broken. He’d been desperate to get out of Alastair’s house, and he hadn’t let anyone look at it, had hidden it away in his coat sleeve.

His thoughts were bouncing around in his head like angry wasps. He needed to quiet them down – drown them out. The bar was close, and Dean parked in a far corner of the parking lot. He walked in, head up, wearing the black eye like a badge of honor.

The bartender glanced up at him when he leaned on the bar – he didn’t think he could sit. “Double whiskey,” he said, and dropped a twenty on the bar. The bartender sighed, and didn’t bother asking for his ID, just stared at him in a way that said, _Just so you know, I know,_ and poured him a drink.

And then, poof, it was 2AM. Four (maybe five?) drinks later and Dean was sloshed, slip-slopping along the floor back out to his car. Belatedly, he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since that morning. Heh… probably wasn’t helping.

The keys were like liquid in his hand, and it took a minute to unlock his car. The neon lights of the nearby gas station blurred everything into a deep red.

Dean poured himself into the Impala. His baby. His one and only. Dean had inherited her, for lack of a better term, when he turned eighteen. After a rare phone call with Dad, who’d said, “ _If you can get her running again, she’s yours.”_ Get her running? Easy-peasy. No one knew cars like Dean. It had taken him less than a week.

Speaking of which, there was no goddamn way he could drive like this… but that was okay. He turned on the radio, then switched to the tape deck. He was overwhelmingly pleased when the Zeppelin kicked on, right where he left it, and he sang along.

“ _Ramble on! Now’s the time, the time is now to sing my song! I’m goin’ ‘round the world, gotta find my girl. On my way! I’ve been this way ten years to the day. Ramble on! Gotta find the queen of all my dreams…”_

Dean slid down in the seat until his head was resting on leather. Fuck, he loved this song. It was all okay, everything was okay – he’d just sit here a few minutes, maybe half hour, and sober up. Then he’d drive home.

He shut his eyes.

And then he blinked awake. It was _freezing_ cold, and the light outside was grey dawn. His mouth was a desert, his head absolutely pounding, and his wrist was screaming at him. It was swollen up like a balloon and was an ugly, mottled purple. He could feel a bruise growing on his thigh from where Alastair had kneeled on him, and his ass felt ripped in half. From when Alastair had… had made him… had…

“Uhhh, fuck,” he moaned, sitting up. Couldn’t think about that now. His neck was stiff and sore, from taking the punches, or from sleeping with his head at a stupid angle, could have been either. He couldn’t believe he’d spent the night in his car. Because that was what had happened – he’d fucking passed out in the goddamn car. _Fuck._

He grabbed the keys and turned – nothing. The engine didn’t turn over, didn’t even manage a rumbling attempt. Dean tried again – nothing. “ _Fuck,”_ Dean hissed. “Fuck me fuck me fuck me _fuck me!”_

Bobby was gonna kill him.

***

Dean always came home. No matter what had happened, even if he came home at four o’clock in the morning, Dean always came home. Bobby trundled down the stairs at six, ready to start calling hospitals. He was almost to the kitchen phone when the front door opened and Dean walked in.

Bobby stared at Dean. His face was swollen, lip split, eye blackened, and Bobby stood beside the stairs with his mind racing back five years to see that fourteen-year-old with a bruised-up face and tears in his eyes and a rat-bastard of a father telling him a lie about fighting.

Dean stared back at him, a dismal, blank look in his eyes, and Bobby bit out, “ _Where. Is. He?”_

Dean blinked. “Where’s…?”

Bobby ripped open the closet door, and his hands closed around his rifle. He felt like a train off the rails, out of control, wild, he was fully ready to put the barrel of that rifle square in the mouth of whoever did that to Dean. “The man, the, the sumbitch that did that. _Where is he?”_

“Oh, no, Bobby…” To his surprise, Dean let out a quiet laugh. He reached out and touched Bobby’s arm, had him lower the gun. “He’s, uh. In the hospital. Pro’ly with his jaw wired shut.”

It took a moment for Dean’s words to catch up in Bobby’s mind. “He’s…? _What?”_

Dean wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I told you. I was gonna take care of it. And I… took care of it.”

Bobby groaned. “ _Christ,_ boy, I didn’t mean…!” Dean stared at the floor. He looked ready to collapse into a puddle, or burst into tears, and Bobby stopped himself. He placed the rifle back into the closet, and shut the door. “Took all night, did it?”

“I… couldn’t drive home.”

“Why the hell not?”

“’Cuz I, I was… I was drinkin’, Bobby,” Dean said, still looking pointedly away. “And then, I, I got real drunk, after. And I was too sc… I couldn’t drive, so I just sat in my car, thinkin’ I’d wait ‘til I sobered up. So I was just sittin’, listening to music, and I, uh… I passed out.”

“You slept in your goddamn car?”

Dean nodded. “Not on purpose. But I killed the battery.” He shrugged. “Had to get a jump.”

Bobby studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Well, good thing you found someone at five in the damn morning who’d give you one.” Dean shrugged again. “You coulda called me, ya know. Idjit.” Then, without waiting for Dean to reply, Bobby cuffed him gently on the shoulder, and said, “I’m glad you didn’t drive, at any rate. Why don’t you go get some sleep?”

Dean looked at him, finally, and gave him a wry grin. “Too tired to sleep.”

“Go lay down, then, and I’ll bring you an ice pack for that shiner.”

“Okay,” Dean mumbled, and brushed past him to limp up the stairs. A moment later, Bobby heard the shower start.

Bobby went into the kitchen, and sank down at the table. He wanted to… he didn’t know. Scream. Weep. Punch a wall. Shoot the motherfucker who put his hands on Dean. Take a baseball bat to John Winchester for fucking his kid up so badly that he thought this kind of treatment was normal. That it was acceptable.

He wished for Karen, then. He craved her like a stiff whiskey. Karen would know what to do. She would know what to say to the boy upstairs, how to comfort him, how to get his head on straight. She would be able to talk to him without getting squeamish about the sex, or jumping to violence. This was beyond him, so beyond him, he felt desperate and crazy and useless.

Bobby dropped his head into his hands, his mind swimming backwards until he was twelve years old again, watching his father slap his mother in the face, watched him yank her down to the floor by her hair, watched his fist rise and fall, again, again, listened to the horrible, wet choking sound come out of his mother’s mouth. Bobby had looked to the rifle then, too – his father kept it loaded by the door, a sentinel, a warning. He was an experienced hunter even then, at twelve years old. While his mother laid gasping on the floor, Bobby had hefted the thing to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. Then he held a handkerchief to his mother’s nose while they waited for the sheriff to arrive. The sheriff had taken a look at the bruises around Bobby’s throat, his mother’s broken nose and teeth, and then sent them off to the county general while the remains of Ed Singer were scraped off the floor.

_Just don’t provoke him. Just don’t do anything to bother him when he’s drinking._ She had always told him the same thing. It didn’t matter – it never mattered.

He’d told John that night, the night he left for the last time.

_I will put a bullet in you and not lose a wink of sleep over it,_ Bobby had said, five years ago

_Oh, fuck you,_ John said.

Bobby had leaned close, had whispered. _It wouldn’t be the first time._ John had known it, then.

Bobby forced himself to slow his breathing down, tried to will his hands to stop shaking. Karen had wanted that baby so badly. But Bobby hadn’t. What if? What if he turned out just like his own old man? He tried to give her what she wanted anyway. But then Karen died and Bobby got his wish – no kids.

No. That wasn’t quite true. He did have kids – two of them. And one was upstairs, and he was splintering apart right before Bobby’s eyes. He needed to get himself out of ancient history, and focus on the present. 

Bruises and wounds. If nothing else, Bobby could handle those.

The shower had shut off, the pipes stopped clanking, and Dean’s footsteps moved quietly back to his room.

Bobby pushed up from the table. His legs felt weak, and he had to stand there for a moment to steady himself. Once he had himself together, he went to the freezer, and pulled out an ice pack. He walked upstairs slowly, trying to give Dean time to get dressed, do whatever he had to do. The bedroom door was shut tight, and Bobby knocked quietly before he pushed it open.

Dean was curled up on the bed, his good arm wrapped around his pillow. He was dead asleep, the weight of the world gone from his face.

He looked eleven years old.

Bobby wanted to turned around and leave the room, leave him to sleep, but he could see Dean’s purple wrist from where he stood. He rested a careful hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean jerked awake.

“Hey, boy. We gotta ice that wrist.”

Dean grunted, and sat up a little to take the ice pack.

“Shit,” Bobby said. “That don’t look so good. It hurt?”

Dean looked at his arm, and nodded.

“Broken?” Bobby said.

Dean shrugged.

“Lemme see it, then.” Bobby sat on the edge of the bed, and Dean held out his arm. Bobby held on to Dean’s elbow, and gingerly prodded at the joint of his wrist with his fingertips. Dean’s entire body cringed away, and he let out a bitten-off yelp.

“ _Shit,”_ he hissed.

“Dean...” Bobby said, and released his arm. “That thing’s beyond me. We gotta go to the hospital.”

For a moment, Dean looked utterly panicked. “No,” he said. “No, it’s… I’m fine. No hospital.”

For as long as Bobby had known them, both boys were incredibly reticent about doctors, hospitals, even the dentist. Probably another thing drilled into them by John. “Boy…”

“Please,” Dean said, staring at the blanket. “ _Please.”_

“Dean!” Bobby said, shocked. “That thing is broken. It needs to be treated by a professional. Somethin’ could really be wrong with it.”

Dean hunched over his arm, looked near tears again. “I just wanna sleep.”

“I know ya do. You can sleep all day when we get back. Okay?”

He waited, worried that Dean would refuse. But quietly, he said, “Okay.”

Bobby helped Dean thread his arms into his coat, and Dean jammed his feet into his boots. Bobby drove them to the hospital in downtown Sioux Falls in the tow truck, and sat with Dean in the ER waiting room. Dean held the ice pack to his arm, and stared at the floor, his eyes on nothing. It was early, so the ER was almost empty, and Dean’s name was called after less than an hour.

“Winchester?” the nurse called. Dean didn't respond. 

Bobby looked at Dean. “Do ya want me to come back with you?”

Dean scowled. “No,” he grunted, but made no move to get up.

Bobby stood. “C’mon, boy. Let’s get it done.”

Dean got to his feet slowly, wincing, and Bobby followed him back over to Triage. Dean sank onto the small bed, and the nurse took his vitals. Tense as a trip wire, Dean held out his arm so that she could examine it.

“What happened to you?” she said.

Dean snorted. “I got my ass kicked,” he said. “What’s it look like?”

The nurse frowned at him. “It looks like fingers. Like someone grabbed you.”

Dean was breathing hard, almost shaking. “Yeah. So, what?”

She stared at him, then looked up at Bobby.

Bobby cleared his throat. “Maybe I should…”

“ _Nothin’ happened,_ ” Dean snarled, his voice trembling. “It was a fight. _That’s all._ I broke my fuckin’ arm. So what? I’m tired, and I’m hungover to shit. Will ya just cast me up so I can go the hell home?”

The nurse, who looked like she had been there all night and was ready for bed herself, rolled her eyes, and didn’t ask him anything else.

They left the hospital a few hours later, after x-rays and exams, and Dean was sporting a fresh cast on his arm. Bobby stopped at the Supermart to fill the painkiller prescription, and Dean swallowed one on their way back. He was half-asleep against the door by the time Bobby drove up the driveway.

Sam was curled up in the arm chair, watching TV when they walked in. He looked at Dean, and his eyes dropped to his arm.

“Holy shit,” Sam said. “What happened?”

Dean shrugged, and sank carefully on the couch.

“Your brother got in a little scrape last night,” Bobby heard himself say. “Ain’t no big deal.”

“I’m aright, Sammy,” Dean said, and tried to smile.

“Why don’t you go on to bed?” Bobby said.

Dean shook his head. “Just wanna sit down here for a minute.”

Bobby nodded, and went to his desk to work. Dean usually made breakfast, and he wondered if Sam had eaten yet. After a few minutes, he went back over to talk to him.

“Sam? You-…?”

“Shhh!” Sam put a finger to his lips, then pointed over his shoulder, and whispered, “ _Dean’s asleep!”_

Dean had fallen asleep on the narrow couch, his casted arm cradled against his chest. Bobby picked up a folded blanket, and draped it over him, then went back to work.

***

**Present time, present day.**

Their suitcases were packed, the gifts were wrapped, and Cas was putting the final touches on a syllabus for one of his classes. Dean sat on the couch and watched him type away, completely focused on his task. Dean reclined back on the couch, let his legs fall apart, and pushed his shirt up a bit on his stomach.

“We need to leave early tomorrow,” Dean said. He slid a foot behind Cas’ back. 

“Mm-hmm.” Cas nodded, but didn’t look over at him.

“Um… I’m probably gonna go to bed now. Just ‘cuz… gonna have to wake up early.”

“All right,” Cas said. He looked at one of his reading lists. “I have some more work to do.”

Dean licked his lips. “Okay,” he said. He got to his feet. “Uh… g’night.”

“Mmh.”

Dean hovered for a moment, then went upstairs, frowning. He stripped out of his clothes and got in the shower.

Well, that hadn’t worked. Dean washed off, considering his next move. He was just going to have to be blunt about it. _I want you to come to bed with me._ He probably should have just said that.

Dean was rinsing his hair, resolved that he would go back downstairs and drag Cas to bed with him, when the shower door opened. Dean bit back a grin.

“’Bout time,” he said, and he heard Cas chuckle behind him.

“I’m so sorry if you had to wait,” Cas said, faux-morose, and his arms slid around Dean’s wet torso.

“You finish your work?”

“No. But it’s all right.” Cas kissed his shoulder. “It’ll keep.”

Dean leaned back against him, let himself enjoy the feeling of Cas’ arms around him. Cas’ hand slid up his chest, his fingers catching on Dean’s nipples, making him jump. He took one of Cas’ hands, and pushed it down to his groin, where his cock was starting to swell.

Cas grinned against his back, and his fingers wrapped around Dean’s cock. He started to stroke slowly, and Dean felt himself relax, let his head drop back against Cas’ shoulder as the hot water ran over both of them. “Fuck, Cas…”

“Mmh.” Cas’ erection was pressed against Dean’s buttocks, and Dean ground back against him.

“You’re so hard,” Dean said. “What? Were you playin’ with yourself before you came up?”

Cas’ teeth grazed the back of his shoulder. “I was watching you shower. You’re so sexy.” Dean shivered despite the heat. In his ear, Cas growled, “I want to fuck you.”

Fuck, Dean wanted that. Wanted it right now. He grabbed Cas’ conditioner, and held it over his shoulder.

“Do it.”

“I…” Cas paused. “This… I can’t. This isn’t lubricant.”

“Don’t care. Do it here. Right now.”

“Uhhh, fuck,” Cas groaned, and took the conditioner from him. Dean heard the cap open, and he braced his hands on the wall. Cas’ slick fingers probed for his hole, and one finger slid inside him. Dean took a hard breath, and his toes curled. “This might be a little rough,” Cas said.

“Good,” Dean said, pushing back against his fingers. He wanted it to hurt. Wanted to feel it for days. Cas slid a second finger in to him, and he grunted, his cock pulsing up against his stomach. Cas fingered him as long as he could stand it, and then Dean felt his cock head nudge against his hole. “Yeah… Cas… want it…”

Cas fucked into him carefully. Too carefully. Dean tried to push back, urge him in faster, but Cas held his hips in a tight grip, and worked in slowly, making Dean tremble with need.

“Do it… fuck me…” Dean said, his hands clenching into fists against the shower wall.

“I’ll give you what you want,” Cas said, and Dean could hear the smile in his voice. “I promise.”

“Now… want it…”

“Be patient.”

Cas was finally fully seated inside him, his hips pressed against Dean’s ass, and Dean moaned openly. Cas started to fuck him slow, and he was right – it was a little rough. The conditioner was weird, definitely not slick enough, but Dean didn’t care.

“Feel so fuckin’ good inside me,” Dean said, dropping his head against his arms. “Always feel so fuckin’ good inside.”

“Dean.” Cas’ voice was rough, and Dean pushed back against him as Cas started to fuck him harder. Dean's hands slipped against the wall, and he pushed back, meeting Cas' thrusts. All he could think about was this. Cas’ cock working inside him, Cas’ hand jerking his dick, everything else was blocked out. It was just him and Cas inside his head.

“ _Fuck,”_ he groaned. “Gonna… _ah! Ah! Ah!”_ Dean’s orgasm hit him suddenly, and he came hard, grinding back against Cas as he spurted over his fist.

Cas pulled out of him, and turned him around before pushing him back against the shower wall. Cas kissed him hard, jerking his own cock as Dean clung on to him, let Cas push his tongue into his mouth. Cas shuddered, and Dean felt his cum splash his hip. It was quickly washed away, and Cas leaned against him, panting.

“Dean… shit… wow…” Cas gave him another soft kiss. Dean traced his lips with his fingertips, the long line of his throat, his prominent collarbone.

“Cas, you’re…” Dean said. “Beautiful. Ya know? Just…” Dean blushed. Cas stared at him, surprised.

“I…” He blinked. “Thank you.” Cas kissed him again. “I love you, Dean.”

“Love you,” Dean murmured.

Cas kissed him one more time, and then straightened up. “Why don’t you go to bed?” he said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Yeah.” Dean grinned at him. “Lemme just rinse my ass off first.”

He dried off and pulled on sweatpants and a tee-shirt. It was cold in the bedroom, but he knew that Cas would crank the heat and sweat him out soon, so he enjoyed wrapping himself up under the blankets while he could.

The shower turned off a few minutes later, and Cas came into the bedroom as he ran a towel over his arms and chest. Dean watched him go directly to the thermostat, before he changed into his pajamas and climbed into bed.

“I’m still really awake,” Cas said, turning on the bedside lamp. “Is the light okay? Do you mind if I read for a while?”

“’S fine.” Dean rolled over to face him. 

“I’ll change the sheets tomorrow, before we leave. That way we can come home to a nice, clean bed.”

“Okay.” Dean shifted closer to him. “You goin’ down to the office? Or you gonna stay up here?”

“I’ll stay.” Cas’ fingers carded through Dean’s hair.

***

“Holy shit.”

Castiel opened his eyes to see Dean standing at the bedroom window.

“Mmh… what is it?” he said, pushing up on his elbows.

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face. “It fuckin’ dumped last night. There must be a foot of new snow out there.”

“Shit.” Castiel laid back down. Perfect. Just perfect.

Dean made breakfast, and then went outside, his mouth set in a grim line, to start digging out the driveway. Castiel changed the sheets on the bed, watered the plants, and then watched him dig out the porch steps, and then the walkway.

“Can I help?” Castiel said. Dean looked up, and then straightened slowly, wincing.

“Yeah. Can you start digging out the car? Scraping the windshield and stuff?”

“Of course.”

“The scraper’s in the backseat. It has a brush on it.”

Castiel walked carefully through the snow, grimacing – it was already inside his boots, dampening his pant legs. He swiped the snow off of the Impala’s windows, and opened the door to get Dean’s long scraper.

“I haven’t seen it snow like this in years,” he said, and pushed the brush through the snow on the roof, knocking it to the ground. “This must be a record.”

“No shit,” Dean said, tossing a shovel-full of snow into the yard. Castiel freed Dean’s car from the snow carefully, mindful not to scratch the paint. He could feel Dean’s eyes on him as he worked.

“I’m being careful,” he called, grinning.

Dean tried to smile, but he just looked nauseated. “Yeah. I know you are.”

Dean finished with the driveway, and then dug out the walkway again as it continued to snow. Castiel dragged their bags into the car and tossed them into the backseat. He stripped out of his wet clothes, and stood in front of the heater for a minute, rubbing his red, raw legs. He needed to invest in some snow pants or something.

“’Bout ready?” Dean said.

“Yes.” Castiel tossed his dirty clothes into the hamper. “Five minutes.” He redressed while Dean hovered anxiously by the front door, turning his keys over in his hands. “Sorry. I’m hurrying.” Castiel pulled on his boots and grabbed his parka, and followed Dean out the door.

There was a new blanket of snow on the stairs and driveway already, and Dean scowled at the sky as they got into the car. The engine stuttered for a moment before it turned over.

The radio kicked on: _“-…blizzard is blanketing most of the Midwest today in fourteen inches of snow and counting. It looks like those dreams of a white Christmas may just be a reality!”_

Dean switched over to the tape deck, rolling his eyes. “Great,” he grumbled, as Black Sabbath started to blare. “Just what we fuckin’ need.” They slid back out of the driveway onto the poorly-plowed street. “Goddamn, son of a _bitch_.”

“The interstate will be better,” Castiel said, gripping the door handle tightly.

“Yeah.”

Castiel was right. Once they escaped the miserable surface streets, the interstate was plowed and salted. But the snow was coming down like pellets, the Impala’s windshield wipers barely able to keep up, and traffic moved along like a herd of snails. Missouri was a nightmare, and the weather didn’t improve as they passed in to Iowa. Their route took them north, almost kissing the Nebraska border as they followed the Missouri River.

An hour from Sioux City, and traffic stopped dead.

“Ah, you gotta be kiddin’ me,” Dean said, dropping his head against the steering wheel.

“I’ll look at the traffic.” Castiel pulled out his phone, and opened up the GPS. The highways were black with traffic. “Um…” He frowned. “Looks like there’s an accident on Highway 60. It’s got it backed up all the way to here.”

“Shit.” Dean squinted at the snow, and Castiel could practically see the road maps forming in front of his eyes. Sometimes it seemed like Dean knew every road in the country. “Where’s it at?”

“Worthington.”

“Shit!” Dean said again. “That’s almost to Windom!” He drummed his fingers on his lap. “How’s the 29 through Sioux Falls?”

“Uh…” Castiel scrolled up the interstate to Sioux Falls. “Slow, but moving.”

Dean blew out a hard breath. “We could hold out and push through to Sioux Falls, then take I-90 over, or we could turn around and go back down to Omaha. Take I-80 to Des Moines, and then take I-35 up until we hit I-90, then double back. Or… we could cut through some local highways? Ya know, jigsaw our way up?”

Castiel blinked at him. “Um… Okay.”

“Well, what do you think?” Dean glanced at him.

“Um…” Castiel shrugged, and turned off his phone screen. “Anything off of the interstate will probably be pretty bad right now, don’t you think?”

“Yeah…”

Castiel felt useless. “Whatever you think is best?”

Dean snorted, and shook his head. “Guess we’ll sit for a minute and see what happens.”

***

“A minute” turned into thirty, and they didn’t move an inch.

“There must be a fatality,” Castiel said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Great.”

“And it’s… well. The busiest travel week of the year.”

“Yup. Thanks.”

Castiel folded his hands in his lap and stared out the window, biting his tongue.

It took another two hours for traffic to start to move, and then it was a foot at a time. Dean was vibrating with irritation, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Goddammit,” he finally said. “This fuckin’ sucks! Can you check the traffic again?”

“Of course.” Castiel pulled out his phone again, and frowned. “It’s… still really bad.”

“Aright. Fuck this.” Dean put his turn signal on and started working slowly over to the right lane, cursing under his breath.

“What do you want to do?”

“First, I’m gonna get off the fuckin’ freeway and find a bathroom before I piss myself. And then we’re flippin’ around and findin’ another way through.”

Castiel kept his mouth shut, and nodded.

*** 

It was almost 11PM when they pulled into the driveway of the house in Windom. Their bright idea to leave the interstate had been shared with a good portion of the rest of the holiday travelers, and the side streets were almost as bad. Dean was furious with everything – himself, the situation, the weather. Cas was being quiet and placating him, which just pissed him off more.

It wasn’t snowing in Windom, incredibly, but there was a solid six inches on the ground. At least the streets were plowed. Dean killed the engine and sat back in the seat, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Well,” Cas said. “We made it.”

“Yeah.” Dean shoved the door open and climbed out, then grabbed his suitcase out of the backseat. Cas followed him.

Kate Milligan was waiting at the front door, her blonde hair in a ponytail, wearing wrinkled, purple hospital scrubs and a baggy sweatshirt. She looked tired.

“Hi!” she said, with an anxious smile as they walked inside. She gave Dean a hug, and he tensed and half-heartedly patted her on the shoulder. She clearly felt awkward, her hands unsure where to rest on his back, and she stepped away quickly. “Dean, it’s great to see you in person!”

“Uh… yeah. Sorry we’re so late,” Dean said. “We left later than we meant to, and the weather, ya know… and there was an accident on the freeway. We sat in traffic for a few hours.”

“I saw on the news. They said it was a bad pile-up. I’m just glad you made it.” She looked at Cas. “You must be Cas!”

“Castiel,” he corrected, in his nastiest voice, and allowed her to hug him as he grimaced at Dean over her shoulder. Dean shook his head, and mouthed, _Be nice._

“Right, Castiel, of course.”

“Ah… It’s very nice to meet you, Kate,” Cas added. “Thank you for waiting up for us.”

She smiled at them, visibly relieved. “Come in, please! You must be exhausted. I have the room all set up for you.”

Kate led them through the house, into the living room, which held a weathered sectional sofa, a recliner, and a Christmas tree strung with glowing red and green lights. Dean stared at it, bewildered. A fucking _Christmas tree._ His father would never. After what happened to Mom, his father would never have a Christmas tree in his house. Even more shocking, beneath the tree were at least a dozen presents, wrapped in shiny, festive wrapping paper.

Dean looked around, mystified. There was no way, no goddamn way John Winchester lived in this house. But it was unmistakable – a man’s Carhartt jacket was hung on the coatrack, heavy work boots were lined up inside the front door, a flannel was tossed over the Barcalounger. Photos of him were on the walls; a younger Dad with a younger Kate, Dad holding a baby, Dad and an older kid, wearing matching caps at a baseball game.

A brother… Dean’s brother. A stranger. A child he’d never met.

Dean scowled.

And the _tree._ Dean had to walk over to it, touch it, to be sure it wasn’t a hallucination. As soon as his fingers closed over a branch, he understood – it was fake. Unnatural. Dean’s scowl deepened.

“So… is my Dad around?” he said.

“He’s, um. He’s asleep already,” Kate said. And then, sheepishly, she said, “I’m sorry.”

Dean bit back the urge to ask if he’d passed out.

Kate led them down a small hallway that was connected to the living room, past a tiny bathroom with pink rugs and a fuzzy cover on the toilet lid. She opened the door at the end of the hall, to a small space that felt like it was an add-on to the house, far colder than the rest of the place. It looked more like a cramped office, with a desk holding an old computer, a bookshelf, and a sofa with a fold-out bed that had been made up with four flat pillows and two heavy quilts. There was a small space heater in the corner that was barfing out heat on High.

“Thanks,” Dean said. Fuck. Cas was going to be pissed.

“Do you guys need anything? There’s plenty of food in the kitchen, and, um, we have beer? And some liquor?” Kate said. “I’m sorry to leave you, but I have to go to bed. You can help yourselves to whatever you want.”

“We’re fine,” Cas said.

“Okay. So, I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, and nodded out, shutting the door behind her.

Cas dropped his bag on the bed, then slowly sank down to sit beside it, facing the wall away from Dean. “This is perfectly charming,” he mumbled.

Dean shook his head. All of the sudden he felt like he was about to burst into tears. “We shoulda gotten a hotel.”

“Oh, God damn it, Dean,” Cas snapped, turning, clearly ready to tell him to shove off. When he saw Dean’s face, he softened. “What? What’s the matter?”

Dean shrugged. “Nothin’. I’m fine.” He sat on the bed, his legs feeling weak. “Just. Dunno. I.” He felt something in his gut, a vague sense of panic. He couldn’t put his finger on it. “This was a dumbass idea.”

Cas pushed his suitcase to the floor, and scooted over to press against Dean from thigh to shoulder. “Come on,” he said, and leaned his head on Dean’s arm. “Dean. It’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah.”

Cas kissed him gently on the side of the mouth, then rested his chin on Dean’s shoulder. “You never know. Maybe this’ll turn out well.”

Dean shook his head.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, and quickly wiped his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want to go have a quickie in the car?”

Dean let out a shocked laugh, and muffled it with his sleeve. He slid a hand around the back of Cas’ neck, fingers tracing the edge of his scar, and kissed him again, then gently bumped their foreheads together. “I owe you one, Cas,” he whispered. “For this.”

“Tell me about it,” Cas said.

Dean held on to him. “You still like me?”

“Oh, shit.” Cas laughed quietly, shaking his head. “We’ll see,” he said, and stood up to dress for bed.

***

Castiel had never been more uncomfortable in his life. The pull-out had a metal frame, and the supporting bar was digging perfectly, directly into his back. Dean, who could sleep anywhere, through street construction, through the sounds of a lawnmower, in his car, on the ground, through nuclear war, had conked out immediately. Castiel tossed and turned, dozed and woke up, dozed and woke up, again and again, until about three in the morning. He gave up, and crawled out of the “bed” (he used the term loosely). Dean was on his back, one hand flopped off the mattress, one hand resting on his chest.

“That arm is going to be sore tomorrow,” Cas whispered, and carefully folded Dean’s arm over his stomach. Then he wandered out to the living room.

The house was two stories, tall and narrow. The living room had light hardwood floors that had been recently cleaned, from the bleachy, lemony smell. Castiel walked quietly through the room, into the kitchen, which was a small, plain space with dark cupboards, dull white and blue linoleum, and a small table surrounded by four chairs. Castiel filled a glass of water from the sink, and drank it slowly. It tasted rusty.

Castiel wished he was home, in his own bed, with Dean asleep beside him. He wished they hadn’t bothered coming here, hadn’t spent half a day in the car only for Dean’s father to not bother being there to greet them when they arrived. He wished he had made a fuss from the beginning, told Dean no, let’s stay home for Christmas this year. Just you and me.

Briefly, treacherously, he wished that he just hadn’t come. Let Dean go alone.

_You’re not here for yourself,_ he thought, furious with himself. _You’re here for Dean. And he would have done the same for you, would have done it selflessly and happily with no complaining. He would have been happy to be with you anywhere. You are a spoiled little rich shit._

Castiel shook his head, and stretched his arms up over his head. His back was already sore from that horrible bed, so he returned to the living room, and laid down on the sofa, pulling the throw blanket off of the back cushions and covering himself with it. It was a little too short, so he had to curl up, managing to be too hot and too cold at the same time. The lights on the tree shined a mix-colored glow on the walls, and he tried to sleep.

***

Dean blinked awake. It was still pitch dark out, and the heater was blaring. Cas wasn’t beside him, and Dean sat up, listening. He could hear movement out in the kitchen, and he pushed the heavy blankets off of himself and went out past the bathroom, into the living room.

Cas was curled up on the couch, eyes closed, his face toward the cushions. He looked asleep. The light in the kitchen was on, and Dean walked around the wall to see who was awake.

His father had his back to him, and Dean took a moment to just see him. His dark hair, now graying. His broad shoulders, his dark flannel shirt. Jeans, work boots. He was thinner than before, than the last time Dean had seen him. Dean pulled his long sleeves down and crossed his arms, had to swallow twice before he could speak.

“Hey, Dad.”

John turned around, his eyebrows raised. “Dean,” he said, sounding almost surprised.

John was aging hard. The lines around his eyes and on his forehead were deep, and his beard was more grey than black. He stared at Dean for a long minute, and Dean forced himself to hold his gaze. He was super-aware of his bare feet, his cheap sweatpants. He wished he were wearing boots, jeans, a heavy coat. A barrier. A forcefield.

The kitchen clock was ticking so loud, it was like a jet taking off. John held up the full coffee pot, and said, “You want coffee?”

“Uh…” Dean blinked. “S-Sure.”

John pulled a second mug out of the cupboard, and set it next to his, which was already full. He filled it, and said, “Still take it black?”

“Yep.”

John picked up both mugs, placed one on one side of the table, and one on the other, then sat down. Dean sank down before his own mug.

“So,” he said, and then totally floundered. He’d been dreading and hoping and preparing for this moment for weeks, and now he had nothing to say. “These are some sweet digs. Never woulda thought you’d end up somewhere like this.”

John snorted. “Better than a motel on skid row.”

“Yeah. Guess so,” Dean said. “How’s, uh… how’s everything with… you and Kate?”

John shrugged one shoulder. “Just fine,” he said, and sipped his coffee. 

Dean ran his tongue over the inside of his teeth. “You’re, uh… workin’? At a garage, or…?”

“Yup.” John took another drink.

This was all wrong; Dean could feel it. He shouldn’t have come here, hoping for some kind of intimacy or reconciliation, not in this stranger’s house. They should have met at a bar in the middle or something. Neutral ground somewhere. Or maybe Dean should have invited John to his house. He tried to imagine his father sitting on Cas’ long sofa, tucked in amid Cas’ nice things – that image didn’t quite fit, either. Wasn't there anywhere they could... talk? 

Dean realized he was squeezing his coffee so tight that his hand was starting to ache. He forced himself to relax. “Look, Dad.”

“Dean,” John said. He leaned forward, bracing his weight on his elbows. “Listen.” Dean closed his mouth so fast he thought he heard it pop. John studied his coffee. “I get that you have somethin’ going with this… friend. Or whatever. And that’s fine. Whatever you have to do – I get it.” Dean bristled. “But I need you to keep it away from Adam.”

Dean’s face burned. “What… do what?”

John looked at him. “He’s a little kid. He doesn’t need that shit shoved in his face. Understand me?”

“I…” Dean gaped at him, his thoughts slow and grinding to a halt. “Uh… okay.”

“Okay?” John echoed.

“Yessir.”

It came out of him automatically, like a reflex. Dean hated himself for it immediately, wished he could undo the entire morning. Wanted to take it back, tell his dad that Cas was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and that John could just deal with it. Fuck, this was a terrible idea. He should have known better.

But then he heard footsteps, and a voice over his shoulder. “John?” Dean turned, and saw Kate standing at the bottom of the stairs in purple fleece pajama pants and a scrub top, her hair messy and knotted over her shoulder. “What are you doing awake? Are you going in to work?”

John stared at her, his face inscrutable. “I have to work. I told you that.”

Kate glanced at Dean, then back at John, and said, “I thought you said you took the rest of the week off?”

“I said I was gonna try to. Jesus, Kate. I don’t know what to tell you.” John took another drink of his coffee. “I’m just goin’ in ‘til noon. Aright?”

“Jonathan Eric Winchester, what do you think you’re doing?” Kate hissed.

“Oh, shit. What the hell do you want from me? I gotta work, don’t I? Gotta put food on the table?”

“Don’t you even try to give me that. Don’t you dare.”

Dean found a knot in the wood on the table and stared at it. It wasn’t even real wood – it was plastic, or formica, painted and styled to look like real wood. Just like the Christmas tree – fake. Dean tried to will himself away from the argument, into the nothing place in his head.

He perked up when John said, “Hey, Dean?” Dean looked at him. “I saw your car out there.”

Dean straightened up. Finally. Something they could connect on. _See, Dad? I kept her up, I made her up just right._ “Yeah. It’s doin’ great, I mean, really. I just replaced the-…”

“Why don’t you touch it up before you get rust?” John slammed the rest of his coffee, and stood up. “Wouldn’t have given you the damn thing if I thought you were gonna trash it.” John threw his coat over his shoulders and stalked out of the kitchen, through the door into the garage. He shut it hard behind him.

Kate stared after him, twisting her hair in her hands, knotting it even more. “I’m, um.” Her face was lined and tired, and she was frowning deeply. “I’m going back to sleep for a few more hours,” she said, finally, and turned to climb back up the stairs. Quietly, not meant for Dean to hear, he heard her say, “I don’t believe him, I don’t believe this.”

_You will lose him,_ he thought. He knew from experience. _The more you want him to stay, the more he will want to leave you. The more you try to tie him down, the faster he will try to get out._

Dean pushed himself up from the table, and moved through the fog back through the living room.

Cas was awake. He had his head propped up on his arm, and the blanket was pushed down to his waist. Dean met his eyes in the gloom, everything lit by the green and red tree lights.

Cas didn’t say anything, almost looked abashed to be caught eavesdropping. Dean remembered how quickly he had rolled over, and was immediately awash with shame. He thought about how nice it would be to just crawl under the small blanket, fold himself against Cas’ body, wedge behind him on the couch and sleep for hours.

Dean went back into the shitty office, and pushed the door shut, but didn’t latch it.

***

Castiel woke a few hours later (though it felt like ten minutes) to the loud, crashing sound of cartoons on the TV.

He sat up, groggy from lack of sleep, and sporting a headache. A child, seven or eight years old, was sitting on the other section of the couch. He was blond and blue-eyed, and wearing dinosaur pajamas, swinging his feet so that his heels bumped against the couch. 

The kid looked over at him. “Good morning!” he said with a gap-toothed smile.

Castiel slung his legs over the couch, and set his feet on the floor. It was freezing cold in the living room, and the floor was like a block of ice. “Hello. You must be Adam.”

“Yup. Who’re you?”

“My name is Castiel. I’m Dean’s friend.”

Adam gasped. “Dean’s here?” he said, sounding shocked and overjoyed.

Castiel smiled. “Yes. He’s still asleep. He’ll be out in a little bit.”

Adam crawled up on his knees so that he was facing Castiel. “Dad said he wasn’t really gonna come. Dad said, um, that he was too good for us. Um, that it was bull… s-word.”

Castiel felt his smile tense. “Well. Here we are. And Dean can’t wait to meet you.” He stood up, and draped the blanket over Adam’s shoulders. “I’d better go wake him up.”

“Okay!” Adam said.

Castiel returned to the office, stretching his arms over his head as he walked in. Dean was bent over the desk, peering out the small window.

“Morning,” Castiel said.

Dean jumped, banging his knee on the desk. “Shit!” he said, and bent down to rub it. “Ow… damn.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean grimaced. “I was just lookin’ at the snow. It came down again last night.”

Castiel back was sore from the horrible bedframe, and from the drooping sofa, and he sat down on the bed and stretched again. The metal frame bit into his thighs. “The couch is worse than the bed. In case you were wondering.”

“Sorry,” Dean said, and sank onto the bed beside Castiel. The frame groaned. “God. Fuckin’ thing’s gonna collapse.”

Castiel scrubbed a hand through his hair, feeling awkward, uncomfortable. He didn’t like feeling this way around Dean, but he didn’t know how else to feel.

Dean shifted, and cleared his throat. “Look. Cas. I know you… you heard…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel said quickly. Of course, he’d heard most of Dean’s conversation with his father. Heard John insist that they don’t “shove it” – it being their relationship – in Adam’s face. Heard Dean practically whisper his acceptance. Castiel knew how much Dean was probably regretting it, how it must be eating at him now. Castiel didn’t want to rub his nose in it.

And what was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to feel? Angry at him for not defending their relationship? Probably. But he didn’t. He just felt tired.

“Cas. It wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have-…”

“I said don’t worry about it.” Castiel stood abruptly, and the bedframe protested. He stooped down to his suitcase, and pulled out the wrapped presents for Adam, Kate, and John. “What should we do with these?” he said.

Dean stared at them. “I… maybe we should wait. Until Christmas morning, or something. I dunno.”

“Okay.” Castiel nodded to the door. “Adam’s out there.”

Dean looked at the door. “I… where’s Kate?”

“I don’t know.” Castiel shrugged, and waved a hand, irritated. How the hell should he know? “Asleep?” Where he should be.

“I…” Dean frowned. “Shouldn’t she… be there? When we…?”

“I don’t _know,”_ Castiel said, and pulled his sweatshirt out of his case.

“Aright. Jeez.” Dean changed into jeans and a clean tee-shirt while Castiel stood in front of the heater, and then he left the room.

***

Dean took a steadying breath before stepping out of the hallway into the living room. He could see him. Adam. In his little-kid pajamas, wrapped up in a blanket on the couch. Dean studied him for a moment. He looked a little like Sam when he was a young kid. Had the same nose, similar jaw. It made Dean soften toward him immediately.

“Adam?” he said.

Adam’s head snapped over to him, and he gasped. “Yeah!” he said, eagerly. “You’re Dean!”

“That’s me,” Dean said, pasting a big grin on his face. “Well? Ya gonna give your brother a hug, or what?”

Adam let out a giddy laugh, and jumped up to stand on the sofa. He threw his arms around Dean’s shoulders, and the blanket fell off of him. Dean lifted him up, and swung him around in a circle.

“Jeez! Your mom didn’t tell me you were almost as tall as me!” Dean said, setting him on the floor. “Ooh, dang. It’s cold out here! You cold?”

“I’m okay!” Adam said, but Dean picked up the blanket and draped it back around his shoulders anyway.

“I was gonna make some breakfast,” Dean said. “You hungry?”

Adam nodded. “Yeah.” He followed Dean into the kitchen, and climbed into one of the chairs and sat up on his knees. Dean dumped the cold coffee from early that morning into the sink, and turned the coffee maker on to make a fresh pot.

“What are you hungry for?” Dean said. He peered into the fridge, and started looking through the cupboards. “You want some cereal?”

“Can we make pancakes?” Adam said.

“Pancakes…” Dean looked through the cupboards, frowning. “Doesn’t look like we’ve got the stuff for pancakes, kiddo. How ‘bout my _famous_ scrambled eggs and toast?”

“Yeah!” Adam said.

Dean found a mixing bowl in the bottom cupboard, and a whisk in one of the drawers. He pulled out the eggs and milk, and then cheese and bread.

“You want cheesy eggs?”

“Yes, please,” Adam said.

“What about…?” Dean looked through the refrigerator for bacon, but didn’t find any. “How about some ham? You want a little breakfast sandwich?”

“That sounds good,” Adam said.

Dean started mixing up the eggs, and wished Cas would come out of the back room and join them. Cas was clearly pissed – and why wouldn’t he be, after what Dean had said to his dad that morning? It still made Dean cringe, just the thought of it. _Yessir, I’ll do whatever you want._ Goddammit. Was he really that pathetic? Was it really that hammered in to him?

Dean threw bread into the toaster, and set a skillet on the stove. 

“So, Adam,” Dean said. “You excited for Christmas?”

“Uh-huh,” Adam said.

“Anything you really want for a present?”

Adam immediately began to rattle off his Christmas list, naming toys and games that Dean didn’t recognize at all. It had been a long time since he’d been around a kid – none of his friends had kids, none of Cas’ friends had kids. Cas had his niece and nephews, but Dean had never met them.

Maybe Sam and Jess would have some kids soon. Sam was proposing, and Jess would obviously say yes. And then they’d be married, and… wasn’t that the next step?

Dean tried to imagine himself as an uncle. That would be nice, he thought.

Dean scrambled the eggs, and laid some ham out on the skillet to warm it up. The toast popped, and he slathered it with butter, then layered on the eggs and cheese and meat. He cut it in half, and looked back at Adam.

“Crusts okay?” he said.

“Uh…” Adam shrugged. “Dad says only babies don’t eat the crust.”

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he grinned at Adam, and carefully cut the crusts off of the sandwich.

“Well. Dad ain’t here. And I won’t tell if you won’t.” He set the plate in front of Adam. “Our little secret, okay?”

“Okay,” Adam said, and carefully lifted one sandwich half to take a bite.

“Need something to drink?” Dean opened the refrigerator again. “Looks like you got OJ, milk, water…”

“Orange juice.”

“Good choice.” Dean poured a small glass of juice, and set it on the table.

Kate came down the stairs and into the kitchen, in blue hospital scrubs, shoving her hair up into a ponytail. She stopped short, her eyes widening, like she was surprised to see them.

“Hi, Mommy!” Adam said. Kate looked at him, at the food on his plate.

“Uh… hi…”

“I made breakfast,” Dean said. “I… He was hungry. I hope that’s okay.” He probably should have asked. Should he have asked? What was proper etiquette for a situation like this?

“Oh, God… I’m sorry, Dean,” Kate said. “I’m so… God. Thank you. I… I slept through my alarm. I meant to get up earlier. John and I, we got our schedules crossed, I think. I have to work today, too.”

Dean forced himself to smile. Great. “It’s no good to work on an empty stomach. Have an egg sandwich.” Dean spooned some scrambled eggs on to a slice of toast, and held the plate out to her.

Kate gave him a weak smile, and took the plate. “Thank you.” She sat at the table, and Dean poured her a cup of coffee, and set it next to her plate. “Oh… thank you.” Her voice trembled a little, and Dean felt a look of horror cross his face. “I’m so sorry. I meant for John to be here, and… for you to meet Adam with us all here, and, and it… it didn’t quite work out.”

“Hey, no worries,” Dean said, and awkwardly patted her shoulder.

Kate looked at Adam. “You met your brother this morning?” she said, and gave him a tired smile.

“Uh-huh.” Adam took another small bite of his sandwich.

“Good.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You like him?”

Adam glanced up at Dean, and nodded.

“Good,” Kate whispered. “Me, too.”

Dean shook his head, grinning.

Cas chose that moment to emerge from the “guest room,” in a sweatshirt and his joggers, still looking cranky and groggy.

“Hi, Cassiel!” Adam said, and Cas looked at him and smiled genuinely. He sat in the chair beside him at the table.

“It’s _Cas-tee-ehl,”_ he said. “There’s a ‘T’.”

“Cats-ee-ehl,” Adam said. “Do you work on cars? Like Dean and Dad?”

Dean poured a cup of coffee for Cas, mixed in milk and a ton of sugar.

“No,” Cas said. “I’m a teacher.”

“Oh! Like Mrs. Dalton?”

“Sure, sweetie, like Mrs. Dalton,” Kate said. “Mrs. Dalton is his second-grade teacher.”

“Yes. A lot like Mrs. Dalton,” Cas said. “But I teach grown-ups. At a college.”

“Ohhh.”

Dean set Cas’ mug in front of him, and Cas looked up and held his gaze for a moment.

_I’m sorry,_ Dean thought. _Please don’t hate my guts._

A shrill ringing split the air, and Kate quickly pulled a cellphone out of her scrub pocket. “Hello? Hey!” She pushed back from the table, and walked away into the living room. “No, everything’s fine. I… Yeah. I was wondering if you would mind taking Adam for the day? Just until four or five? I have to… I… oh. Okay. No, no, it’s okay. Thanks anyway.” She ended the call, and ran a hand over her face. _“Shit,_ ” she whispered.

Dean walked around the table, and stuck his head into the living room. “Everything okay?” he said.

Kate was staring at her phone. “Oh… yes. The daycare’s closed. I’m just trying to find a sitter.”

Dean looked back at Cas, who raised his eyebrows and nodded. “We can, uh. We can watch him.”

Kate looked up from her phone. “What? Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly ask…” She chewed her lip for a moment. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Cas said.

“Well…” Kate walked over to Adam. “Sweetie? Would you mind staying here with your brother until Mommy and Daddy get home from work?”

“Okay!” Adam said, grinning.

“Okay,” Kate said. “Good. I have to go. I’m so late.”

“I’m not blocking you in, am I?” Dean said. Kate went to the living room window and peered out.

“No, no, I can get around you.” She pulled on her coat. “I’ll be home by five at the latest. I’ll try to get off earlier.”

“Don’t worry about anything,” Dean said.

“Thank you, Dean,” Kate said, and kissed his cheek. “You’re a lifesaver. Um… just call me, if anything’s wrong? Or John? But… probably me.” She gave him a weak smile, and left through the door to the garage. Dean heard the garage door open, and then shut a minute later.

“Hmm.” Cas got up from the table, and went over to pick up a piece of toast. “This ought to be fun,” he said. "She seems like she has it all together." 

"Cas," Dean said. He looked at Adam. “Finish your breakfast, Adam,” he said.

"She's younger than I thought," Cas said. "She can't even be forty. How old is your father?" 

Dean frowned, counting up in his head. "Uh... fifty-six. Fifty-seven, maybe." 

"Hmm." 

"Cas," Dean warned, glancing at Adam. "Enough." 

Cas frowned, and turned around to dig through the eggs. 

“What are we gonna do today?” Adam said, and took another bite of his sandwich.

“What do you want to do?”

“Can we go play outside?” Adam said.

“’Course. If you finish your sandwich.”

“I am,” Adam said.

“I’m going to shower,” Cas said, and quickly finished his coffee.

“Aright. Have fun,” Dean said, as Cas disappeared up the stairs. He ate his own breakfast quickly while Adam finished his. The pipes clanked as the water started to run upstairs. Once Adam finished the sandwich, Dean said, “Let’s go get you dressed, huh?”

Adam, who was still in his dinosaur pajamas, nodded and hopped out of the chair. He led Dean up the stairs, and down the narrow hall to his bedroom.

Adam’s room was square and cramped, and smelled like he might have wet the bed a few nights before. It was also a mess. There were toys everywhere; Legos and blocks, action figures, model cars, broken crayons, kid’s books. A little kid science kit was broken in the corner, plastic beakers and test tubes laying haphazardly on the carpet. Dean remembered when he had to scrape coins together to buy Sam a bag of Funyons for Christmas one year, and his throat clenched tight for a moment.

“Can you get yourself dressed?” Dean said. “Need me to pick clothes for you or anything?”

“I can do it,” Adam said cheerfully, going to the little dresser and opening the top drawer.

“Okay. I’ll be right out here.”

Dean stepped back out into the hall. Photos hung on the wall, mostly of Adam – baby photos, toddler department-store mattes, some of Adam and Kate, one of Adam, Kate, and John, probably from the last six months. Dean could hear the shower running behind one door, and the other door he peeked behind was a disordered linen closet.

Dean nudged the last door open, and turned on the light.

The master bedroom was a mess. Laundry was piled everywhere, water cups covered the bedside tables, the bed was unmade, pillows piled and bunched, and blankets hanging to the floor. The TV and surfaces were dusty. The blackout curtains were half-open, and Dean could see snow falling outside.

He took a step into the room, shoulders hunched, feeling every bit like the snoop he was. There were two dressers. One was tall and antique-y, with framed photos propped up on top; Kate and his father smiling at the camera, his father holding a much-younger Adam, Kate and another woman (a sister, maybe). The other dresser was shorter and squatter, the drawers barely coming up to Dean’s hip. It was styled like a vanity, with a mirror backed up against the wall. Around the mirror, photos had been slotted into the wood frame.

The pictures were all old and a little faded, dog-eared and crumpled from handling. Every single one was Dean, Sam, Dean and Sam, Dean and Sam and John. They hadn’t been able to salvage much from the burned-out shell that remained of their home, but they had managed to retrieve a handful of baby pictures, which were now displayed here. Pictures from their travels – Dean and Sam as young kids at the Grand Canyon; pre-teens on a grey, dreary beach; a photo of Sam in his graduation robes, his arm around 22-year-old Dean, who was giving a scowl-smile to the camera. A picture of Sam on Dad’s lap, Dean standing beside him in front of the Impala, maybe nine or ten years old.

And face-up on the dresser, was a photo of his father and (his breath caught in his throat) his mother.

Dean picked up the picture carefully, reverently. John and Mary, cheek to cheek, smiling big happy-happy smiles. Dean had no idea when it had been taken, maybe even before they had kids – they looked really young.

Dean wondered what it must feel like for Kate, always trapped in the shadow of Mary. Always second-best. Always the one he settled for.

“What are you doing?”

Dean almost leapt out of his skin. Cas was standing at the door, dressed in jeans and a sweater, rubbing a towel through his still-damp hair. He set the photo down.

“Nothing,” he said. “I dunno. Just lookin’.”

Cas looked over at the mirror, and his lips parted in surprise. “Wow,” he whispered. “Look at that.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “No kidding.”

Cas smiled gently, and pointed at one of the photos of Dean and Sam when they were young kids. “You were adorable.”

“Hey, I’m still adorable, right?”

Cas hummed. “Sometimes.” Dean felt himself flinch, and Cas looked around the room, his face pinching. “A bit messy,” he said.

Dean snorted. “Guess the maid hasn’t been in today.”

Cas gave him an irritated look, and left the room. Dean turned off the light, and shut the door.

_Hell,_ he thought. _What’d I do now?_

***

Dean bundled Adam up in his coat, mittens, and hat before turning him loose on the snow. Dean helped him make a snowman, and then made a valiant attempt at a snow fort. Cas joined in for a little bit, but he was clearly cold and uncomfortable in the snow.

“You don’t have to be out here,” Dean mumbled, while Adam started on a second snowman.

“I want to,” Cas said. “But… I might go in soon.”

Dean kissed him quickly while Adam’s back was turned, was grateful that Cas let him.

At Adam’s urging – _“Watch this, Dean! Dean! Watch this!” –_ Dean watched Adam make a dozen snow angels, before he crossed his arms, jamming his damp-glove-covered hands under his arms.

“Aright, kid,” Dean said. “My hands are numb. You ready to go inside yet?”

“Um…” Adam flopped on to his back again. “One more!” he said, and made one more snow angel. He finally let Dean drag him inside around noon.

“Why don’t you go put on some dry clothes?” Dean said, while Adam pulled off his snowy boots inside the front door. “And I’ll make some lunch.”

Adam scampered off upstairs, and Dean took a minute to breathe. Cas was sitting on the sofa with a book, and Dean warmed at the sight of him. Just like home.

“Look at you,” Cas said, and smiled. “You’re such a good big brother.”

“I’m tryin’,” Dean said, and shrugged. “Gotta make up for some lost time, I think.”

“I can tell he likes you a lot.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean shrugged, and turned to hide his blush. “Hope so.”

Cas closed his book and set it down. “Why don’t you go clean up? Take a shower or something? I can start lunch.”

Dean paused, trying to keep the frown off of his face. Cas rolled his eyes.

“Canned soup and grilled cheese? I think I can handle that.”

“Okay. Only if you promise to watch it the whole time and not just leave it on the stove and forget about it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Dean hovered for another minute. “You sure? You don’t mind watchin’ the rugrat for a few minutes?”

“ _Go_ ,” Cas said, and pushed on his shoulder. 

Dean grabbed his toiletries bag out of his suitcase, and jogged up the stairs. Adam was still in his bedroom, and Dean went into the small bathroom and shut the door behind him. It was still damp and foggy from everyone else’s showers that morning, and it smelled vaguely mildewy. Dean turned on the hot water, and tried to find a place for his shampoo and soap among the shampoo and conditioner bottles for the three people who lived in the house. He showered off quickly, knocking bath toys into the tub each time he turned.

He dried off and redressed, and hustled back downstairs, not wanting to abandon Cas with Adam for too long. He found Cas at the stove, carefully stirring a pot of tomato soup while a grilled cheese charred on the skillet.

Dean grabbed the spatula and quickly flipped the sandwich, and Cas pushed him away.

“I told you I can handle it,” Cas said.

“Uh-huh.” Dean watched him for a moment. “Where’s Adam?”

Cas pointed over his shoulder, toward the living room. “He brought his Legos down to show you.”

“Great,” Dean said, and walked into the living room. Adam had upended a plastic tub of Legos on the floor, and was creating what looked like a tower. The TV was playing Looney Toons.

“You buildin’ something?” Dean said, and sat on the couch. Adam looked up, smiling.

“Yeah! I’m building a skyscraper. Do you wanna build something too, Dean?”

“Uh… sure.” Dean shifted so that he was sitting on the floor, and started aimlessly putting pieces together. He looked up at the wall, where the picture of Adam and John at a baseball game together was staring him in the face.

“You guys go to a lot of baseball games together?” he asked.

“Yup,” Adam said. “We go every year for my birthday. Baseball’s my favorite sport.” 

“Hey, mine, too,” Dean said.

“Really? Cool!” Adam said. “What do you and Dad do for your birthday? Do you go to games, too?”

The question caught Dean off-guard, and he stopped for a moment, groping for an answer. “We… uh. Well.” He cleared his throat, wondered if Cas could hear him flopping. He forced two Lego pieces together. “Well, we live so far apart now that we don’t always get to see each other. But when I was your age, we, uh… We did lots of stuff.” He swallowed. “But, ya know, Dad worked a lot when I was your age. I’d usually spend my birthday with my brother.”

“With Sam?” Adam said.

“Yep. With Sam.”

***

**10 years ago.**

Sam had been watching the mailbox like a hawk for weeks. Bobby heard him go out to check the box once the battered USPS truck drove off, and a minute later he heard the screen door open and snap shut.

“Dean!” Sam yelled. “ _Dean!”_

Heavy footsteps were on the stairs, and then the muffled sound of Dean almost falling down. “What? What happened?” Dean said. “Shit!” Bobby walked around to the front room to see what the commotion was all about.

Sam held up a large, thick envelope, addressed to _‘Mister Samuel William Winchester.’_ “It’s from Stanford,” he said, breathless.

“Well,” Dean said, and waved a hand. “Open it already! Shit!”

Sam looked at the envelope. “I can’t,” he said.

“What?”

“Open it for me.”

Dean snatched the envelope out of his hands, shaking his head. “Chickenshit,” he said fondly. “Look at the size of this thing – you know you got in.” He ripped into the envelope gracelessly, and removed the contents. “Aright, aright… ‘ _Dear Mr. Winchester…’_ Blah, blah, blah… _‘We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted’…_ Fuckin’ told you, Sammy, c’mon…” Dean read a little more, and then he sucked in a breath. “Uh… holy shit, Sammy.”

“What?” Sam said. “What is it?”

“They’re…” Dean looked at him, open shock on his face. “They’re givin’ you a full fuckin’ ride!”

Sam shook his head. “Don’t mess with me.” He took the letter back, and scanned it quickly. “They’re… it’s…” His mouth hung open, and tears actually sprang into his eyes.

“I guess you’re goin’ to Stanford,” Dean said. Sam wiped his eyes with his ratty sweatshirt sleeve, sniffling. “ _I guess you’re goin’ to Stanford!”_ Dean said, grabbing Sam’s shoulders and giving him a shake.

“I… got a… I’m gonna…”

Dean picked Sam up, and swung him in a circle while Sam laughed. “Bobby!” he said. “We got a college boy on our hands!”

“Well done, Sam,” Bobby said. _College._ That had never been something that was in the cards for Bobby – he didn’t know anyone in his family who had a college education. Even the word seemed foreign and strange to him. “Really well done. And a full ride to boot.”

“This is awesome, this is…” Sam looked at the letter. “I’ll have the credits to graduate in a month. I can go out to Palo Alto early, as soon as I’m done.”

Bobby glanced at Dean. Dean had looked jovial before – now he looked stricken. Almost panicked.

“There’s all kinds of stuff I can do,” Sam continued, oblivious. He opened one of the pamphlets that came with his acceptance letter. “Stanford’s got all kinds of programs for-…”

“Nope,” Bobby said, and shook his head.

“What? Why?” Sam demanded.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere ‘til you walk. I need a new picture for my mantle.”

“But-…”

“ _No,”_ Bobby said firmly.

“I don’t even need to take any more classes!” Sam said, petulantly. “I have more than I need from all my correspondence courses!”

“Then you can sit bored in electives for the rest of the year.”

Sam pouted for a full hour before perking up when Dean offered to bake a celebratory pie.

“What flavor?” Dean said, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Hmmm… apple. No, cherry. No… apple.”

“Apple it is. For the college-boy.”

It was about three months after Sam got his acceptance letter that Dean walked into the house, holding a piece of mail of his own.

“I got my GED,” he said, and held up the certificate. No preamble, no nothing. Just a simple statement. Bobby hadn’t even known that Dean had taken the test for it. Bobby remembered receiving the letter when Dean was 20 that alerted him that Dean was officially withdrawn from the high school. Bobby had always hoped he would pull through and finish, but couldn’t deny that Dean’s inevitable drop-out had been a long time coming. He felt a sudden, intense rush of relief.

“About damn time!” Sam groused, but then he got up from the table and gave Dean a hug. “I’m proud of you, Dean,” he said, quietly, probably not meant for Bobby to hear.

Bobby sighed, and nodded, and asked Dean what he wanted for supper.

The rest of Sam’s senior year flew by. Before Bobby could blink, it was June, and Sam was putting on his black gown and hat so that Bobby could take a picture before the ceremony.

“Smile big, now,” Bobby said, and snapped a photo. Dean rolled his eyes.

“You look great, Fabio,” he said. “You cuttin’ that hair any time soon?”

Sam put his long hair behind his ears. “Nope,” he said.

“Now I want one with both of you,” Bobby said. “Dean, get in there.”

“What?” Dean said, and shook his head. “No way.”

“C’mon, Dean, I’m gonna be late,” Sam said.

Dean, who was wearing a second-hand suit with frays at the seams, actually blushed.

“It ain’t about me today, Bobby,” Dean mumbled.

“Oh, for the love of God,” Sam groaned. He grabbed Dean’s arm and yanked him closer, then put an arm around his shoulders. Bobby held up the camera, and Dean gave him a shitty smile.

After the ceremony, Dean disappeared to the grocery store, and Bobby sat out on the back porch. It had been eight years since Sam and Dean were dropped off with him for good, and it felt like eight minutes. Was that what happened when you had kids in your house? Did you just lose time like that?

Sam emerged from the house, changed out of his suit and into jeans and a tee-shirt. He sat down in one of the lawn chairs, and put his feet up on the railing.

“Ain’t you got a party to be at or somethin’?” Bobby said.

“Later,” Sam said, looking out at the salvage. “I just wanna sit for a little bit.” A hot wind was blowing, rustling the trees and kicking up dust. The loose parts of the chain link fence bounced against the fence posts.

“Doin’ okay, Sam?” Bobby said.

Sam looked at him, and nodded. “Yeah. I’m great.” Sam, perpetually moody and sour, gave Bobby a surprisingly good-natured smile. He looked back out at the salvage, at the swaying trees. “Everything’s gonna change now,” he mused, and then he put his hands behind his head. “I can’t wait.” He looked at Bobby again. “Dean’s gonna be okay. Right?”

Bobby held back his frown. “Well, sure. Why wouldn’t he be?”

Sam shrugged. “Just… don’t want him to be lonely.”

Bobby tried to smile. “That’s sweet of ya to worry. But your brother’s an adult, Sam. He’ll be just fine. I’m sure he’ll miss you a bunch, but as long as you promise to visit once in a while, everything’ll be… fine.”

Sam nodded.

Speak of the devil. Dean came around the side of the house stomped up the stairs, holding a case of his favorite skunk beer. He sat down in the other free chair, and pulled one of the beers out of the pack, then held it out to Sam. “C’mon. We’re havin’ a beer to celebrate.”

Sam huffed. “I don’t drink,” he said, crossing his arms.

Dean snorted. “Bullshit.”

“I don’t,” Sam snapped, defensive. “You think I’d get a full ride if I was drunk all the time?”

Dean’s smile tensed. “Uh… heh. I guess not.” He bent to put the beer back in the pack, his face reddening.

Sam’s face softened. “Um… I mean…” He shifted in the chair, putting his feet down on the porch. “M… Maybe I can try one?”

Shrugging, Dean said, “Only if you want to, Sammy.” He tried to laugh. “It’s just more for me.”

Sam held his hand out, and Dean gave him a beer. Glancing at Bobby, Sam said, “Is it okay?”

Bobby sighed. He really shouldn’t endorse underage drinking – never mind the fact that Dean was probably drinking whiskey before he was off the tit, and Bobby never exactly put the kibosh on that – but he didn’t want Sam to accidently kill himself because he didn’t know what being drunk felt like.

“You should probably know how it makes you feel,” he decided.

“You might change your mind and decide you wanna have some fun over there,” Dean said, and kicked Sam’s chair leg.

“Screw you,” Sam said, without venom, and cracked open the beer. Then he grinned, and said, “Cheers.”

Dean knocked his beer against Sam’s, and they both took a slug.

Sam’s face contorted as he choked the beer down. “ _Ew! That’s_ what beer tastes like?”

Dean shook his head, and took another long drink. “Shit. You really are a girl.”

“It’s disgusting. You make it sound like it’s God’s gift!”

“Sorry, Samantha. Should I get you some chocolate milk?” Dean chuckled.

Sam snorted. “Is there any?”

Dean threw back his head and laughed, and Sam started to laugh so hard that he doubled over.

“Hey, I got an idea,” Dean said, and then he got up and disappeared into the house. Sam took a few more drinks of his beer, his face screwing up in disgust each time. Bobby bit back a grin.

Dean reappeared, and he threw Sam’s baseball glove into his lap. Sam picked it up, frowning.

“Seriously?” he said.

“C’mon, chicken,” Dean said. He slid his own glove on to his hand, and snapped the dirty baseball into it. “Too scared of my fastball?”

Sam tipped the can into his mouth and chugged the last of his beer. He got to his feet, jammed his hand into his mitt, teetering just a little. “Aright, aright. Let’s do it.” He followed Dean down the porch steps, out to the dusty, patchy grass.

“You ready? This one’s gonna take your hand off,” Dean said, rolling the baseball in his hand. Sam smacked his fist into his glove.

  
“Gimme your best shot,” he said.

Dean wound up and threw the ball hard. Bobby heard it snap into Sam’s glove.

“Ah! Ow!” Sam said, taking his hand out of the glove and shaking it. “You jerk! Damn...”

“C’mon, bitch, you’re up,” Dean said. He got down into a catcher’s crouch, and held up his glove. “Two outs, bases loaded, Sammy Winchester on the mound! Can he do it, folks? Can he shut ‘em out?”

Sam threw the ball back to him, and Dean groaned as he straightened up.

“You call that a strike? That was terrible!”

“Shut up!” Sam laughed, and Dean threw the ball back to him.

“Now gimme a real throw. Come on!” Dean said, and crouched back down. Bobby watched them throw the ball back and forth, feeling strange. Almost like… he might tear up.

Bobby snorted, and crossed his arms. Ridiculous.

Afterward, Dean shooed Sam off to a graduation party. “Just call me if you get all scared and need a ride home. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Sam flipped him the bird as he walked out the door, and Dean chuckled as he left.

Bobby worked at his desk, and Dean flopped over in front of the TV. After a while, Bobby walked over to sit beside him.

“You aright, Dean?”

“Huh?” Dean looked at him.

“Are you okay?” Bobby said. “Sam graduating. Goin’ off to college in a few months. He’s goin’ awful far.”

Dean stared at him for a moment, then looked back at the TV. “Yeah. I know. I’m fine.” He looked at his watch, and got abruptly to his feet. “I’m gonna go out for a little bit,” he said, and Bobby watched him go.

***

The sound of an unfamiliar engine coming down the driveway roused Bobby from sleep. He looked at the clock on his bedside table – just past 3AM. A customer, at this hour? Surely not, but it wasn’t impossible. People showed up to garages with wild emergencies at all hours. Or maybe someone was giving Sam a ride home?

He got out of bed and trundled over to the window to peer out. A tacky red Mustang was rolling up the gravel drive. It came to a stop beside the tow truck, and the passenger door opened.

Dean got out of the Mustang, adjusting his belt, then straightening his jacket. A man climbed out of the driver side. Older. Maybe in his forties.

Dean said something to him, pointing back at the car, but the man raised his hands, a smarmy grin on his face. He leaned against the hood of his car, and Dean walked over to stand in front of him, looking back at the porch. They spoke for a minute.

And then the man grabbed Dean and kissed him hard, one hand dropping down to grab his ass.

“Jesus Christ on the Cross,” Bobby said, feeling nauseated at the sight. He let the curtain fall back into place and returned to bed, shaking his head.

***

Sam wandered into the house around two PM the next day, looking dazed and tired. Dean looked over at him as he walked into the living room, and sank into one of the arm chairs. Bobby was organizing some of the books on his shelves, trying to make some room.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who got lucky last night,” Dean said, smirking. Bobby wanted to gag. 

“Oh, shut up,” Sam grumbled, sinking low in the chair. “I stayed at Kevin’s. His mom dropped me off.”

Dean sniffed the air, frowning. “What stinks? Is that cigarette smoke?”

“I dunno. Probably. I was at a party.”

Dean scoffed. “Were you smoking? Sam?”

“No.”

“You better fuckin’ not be. It’s a disgusting habit. It kills people. You smoking, Sam?”

“No!” Sam insisted. “Jesus, what’s with you? It wasn’t me, okay? It was… someone else.”

“Someone…?” Dean paused, and then a smile spread over his face. “Why, Sammy. Did you… meet someone?”

Sam rolled his eyes, his face going pink. “It wasn’t anything. She’s just a girl in my… she _was_ in my class. We just talked. Okay? Will you relax? She’s going to Boise in the fall, and we just talked for a while. About schools and stuff. She smoked, like, a whole pack while we were there.”

“You sly dog.”

Sam got up. “I’m gonna go take a shower.” He sniffed his sweatshirt as he walked away, frowning.

“Hey, what do you want for supper?” Dean called as he walked away.

“I dunno. Spaghetti?” Sam called back.

“Spaghetti and red sauce?”

“Yeah. No meat in mine?”

“Aright.” Quieter, he said, “That work for you, Bobby?”

“’Course,” Bobby said, sliding the last book on to the shelf. “Sounds great.”

Dean got up. “Okay. I’m gonna get the sauce goin’.”

“You don’t have to make the sauce from scratch. We got Ragu in there somewhere.”

Dean stared at him incredulously. “You want Ragu, or you want homemade sauce?”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Just don’t… don’t kill yourself over it.”

Dean walked away from him, into the kitchen. “It’s the easiest thing in the world,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Bobby went back to work while Dean cooked, listening to the sound of him clanging around in the kitchen. The pipes groaned as Sam used the upstairs shower, and he emerged a few minutes later in clean clothes with damp hair. He flopped on the couch in front of the TV, and soon Bobby heard him start to snore. Whatever Dean was making started to fill the house with the scent of food, and it smelled great. 

Dean went back into the living room, and Bobby heard him chuckle at the sight of Sam sprawled out. And then Bobby heard a loud _smack!_

“ _Owww!_ Jerk!” Sam squawked.

“Ha! Gotta watch your back better than that, Sammy.”

“Yeah, you watch yours,” Sam said. And then he said, “Don’t you have to work tonight or somethin’?”

“Nope,” Dean said. “Got the night off.”

“Oh.” Sam paused. “Well… whatcha doin’?”

“Dunno. Thought I’d hang out here. Wanna watch a movie?”

With false disinterest, Sam said, “Sure. Whatever.”

Bobby smiled, and focused on his invoices.

***

Dean was finishing up in the kitchen just after six PM, and Sam had disappeared upstairs, probably already packing his things up. Bobby wandered into the kitchen, sniffing the sauce and tasting the browned burger.

“Hey!” Dean said, and whacked him on the arm with his spatula. “It’s almost ready, ya pig.”

Someone was knocking on the front door. Dean and Bobby looked at each other in surprise.

“Hooker’s here,” Dean said, and started to laugh.

“Customer, ya think?” Bobby said, and went into the front room to open the door. “Ah, hell.”

John Winchester was leaning against the door frame, holding a bottle of Jack Daniels. He looked rough and unshaven, and he stank like Marlboros. 

“Singer,” John said, and walked past him into the house.

“John… what…?” Bobby got out. “What the hell are ya doin’ here?”

“Ain’t I got a right to see my boys?” John said. He was clearly tipsy, slurring a little, but at least he was upright.

“Who’s here?” Sam called from upstairs, as Dean walked into the front room.

“Sammy!” John called. “Where’s my boy?”

Sam came down the stairs, his eyes wide. “Dad?” Sam said. He looked to Dean, who shook his head, to his father, confusion on his face. “What are you doing here?”

“Think I’d miss my own son’s graduation?” John said.

“You did miss it,” Sam snapped. “It was yesterday.” He crossed his arms. “How’d you even know about it?”

Quietly, Dean said, “I told him.”

“Dean gave me a call a few weeks ago,” John said. He held up the bottle and said, “I thought we could have a drink and celebrate.”

Bobby felt Dean stiffen beside him. Sam tossed his hair out of his eyes, and stomped the rest of the way down the stairs. “I don’t drink,” he said sourly, and brushed past them to the kitchen. He looked at Dean with absolute fury in his eyes. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t…” Dean started, then stopped.

“Jesus Christ,” John said, rolling his eyes. “The hell’s the matter with him?”

Bobby scrubbed a hand down his face. “Well. ‘Spect you’d like to stay for dinner,” he said. “There enough for everyone, Dean?”

Dean straightened. “‘Course.” He tried to smile. “It’s good to see you, Dad.”

Thankfully, John’s face softened. “Yeah. You, too.” He held out an arm, and Dean walked into his embrace, slinging his arms around him tightly. “Okay. Aright.” John patted him firmly on the back, and stepped away.

Bobby wanted to wring his neck.

Dean cleared his throat, and turned away. “Supper’s almost ready, if you wanna sit down.” He disappeared into the kitchen. Bobby followed him, and sat down at the kitchen table, his head pounding. At least he was here. At least he showed up. That had to be something, right? Better than nothing?

“Got any beer?” John said, and sat at the table beside him, setting the bottle of Jack next to his plate.

“In the fridge,” Bobby said. Dean set the plate of bread and bowl of pasta on the table.

“Sam’s in the other room. I’m gonna…” He trailed off, and walked off into the living room. Bobby heard him and Sam speaking in hushed voices.

John got a beer out of the fridge and cracked it open, looking at the stove. Oblivious, he asked, “Who cooked?”

Bobby sat up a little straighter. “Dean,” he said, feeling a touch of something – pride, maybe. “He’s a great cook, ya know.”

John scoffed, and shook his head. “Yeah. He’ll make a great housewife someday.”

“Aw, hell, John,” Bobby said. “You better just get past that shit right now. Hear me? Right now. I won’t have it in my house.”

John just stared out the window. Bobby pushed up from the table, and got a beer out of the fridge for himself. 

Dean’s voice was suddenly clear from the living room. “ _Sammy. Now.”_

“ _Fine!”_ Sam shouted back. A moment later he appeared in the kitchen, red-faced and scowling. He dropped into one of the open seats, crossed his arms, and glowered at the table. Dean walked in behind him, and went to the stove.

“Okay. Soup’s on,” he said, and picked up two saucepans. “Red sauce with meat, and red sauce without. At the vegetarian’s request,” he said, and set the pans on the table.

“Smells great,” Bobby said, and helped himself to a chunk of bread.

“Yeah,” Sam grumbled. “It really does.” Bobby watched him fill his plate, his hunger obviously winning out against his resentment.

They ate in stilted silence for a while, until Dean said, “So, Dad… how’ve you been?”

John shrugged, and finished his second beer. “Can’t complain.”

“Been anywhere interesting?”

“Hmm. Was down south for the last few months. Around the Florida panhandle, spent some time on the Louisiana coast. Was on a trawler for a while, out in the Gulf.”

“What’s a t…?” Dean said, frowning. “Um. What’s that?”

Sam, who had been pretending not to listen, said, “A trawler’s a deep-sea fishing boat.” Then he looked back at his food.

“Oh, wow. That’s cool,” Dean said, and then hunched over his plate. “Um… ya know, Sammy’s goin’ to college.”

Sam glared at him.

“He got into Stanford. In California,” Dean continued. “I mean, he got in everywhere. But he picked Stanford.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“Really? That’s great. Always knew you were destined for somethin’ big, Sammy,” John said, and reached out to ruffle Sam’s hair. Sam leaned away, the look on his face one that could melt paint. “You were always the smart one.”

Dean moved the food around on his plate silently.

“Stanford, though. That’s pretty expensive, I reckon.”

“Well, not for me,” Sam said. “I got a full ride. So.” He shrugged.

John let out a low whistle. “Son of a bitch. That’s pretty impressive.”

“I guess.” Sam ate another mouthful of spaghetti.

Bobby caught John’s eye, and looked at Dean purposefully. John pressed his lips together.

“What about you, Dean?” John said, and Dean sat up. “What have you been doin’?”

Dean sipped his own beer. “Been workin’ on the Impala. Just replaced a head gasket. And just… workin’. Ya know. Same old.”

John snorted. “Where? The truck stop bathroom?”

“What?” Dean said, his eyebrows coming together. “No, I…” He seemed to realize what John meant, and color rose in his face. “Uh… I…” He looked down at his plate, and shook his head.

Sam threw his fork down on his plate. “You’re such a fuckin’ asshole,” he snarled.

“Sammy,” Dean said.

“Oh, what? I can’t make a joke?” John said, and took a long drink of his beer. “Bunch of fuckin’ crybabies.”

“No.” Sam pressed his hands to the table, leaning forward. “Dean works his ass off. You don’t get to fuckin’ talk to him like that.”

“Will you quit your goddamn whining?” John said. “Fuck! I thought you mighta grown up a little in the last few years!”

Sam’s voice dropped low. “I hate you,” he said, almost whispered.

“Oh, for Chrissake,” John said, leaning back in his chair.

“I hate you _so much,”_ Sam hissed. “I wish you were dead.”

“Sam!” Dean barked.

Sam jerked to his feet, towering over the table. “Every fucking day I wish you were gone. Dead or gone or anything! So I won’t have to dread hearing that you’re askin’ for me on the phone, or that you’ll show up piss-ass drunk somewhere! So maybe I can finally get some peace!” He was seething, almost hyperventilating. “I can’t believe you would just show up here. I can’t fuckin’ believe it. After, how long? Eight years? You got some goddamn nerve!”

Bobby knew he should do something, put a stop to it. But Sam was taking the words right out of his mouth. 

Dean stood up and put his hands on Sam’s shoulders, pulling him back from the table. “Sammy,” he said. “Cool off. Okay? Cool. Off.”

“Listen to your sister, Sammy,” John said, a ragged grin on his face.

Dean turned to look at him, shock and hurt clear on his face. Sam was livid.

“You are an absolute piece of _shit!”_ he roared. John just rolled his eyes.

“And you’re a spoiled little shit.”

“Goddammit, Sammy, c’mon!” Dean said, holding him by the shoulders.

“ _Stupid, fuckin’ useless drunk!”_ Sam shot back.

John’s fist caught Sam on the cheek. Bobby wasn’t sure if Sam had ever taken a punch before, not really. Sam stumbled back, seeming shocked by the pain.

“John!” Bobby snapped.

Dean’s hands dropped from Sam’s body, releasing him, and Sam launched himself at John, punched John as hard as he could. He was sloppy, but he was taller than John, had a longer reach. John went reeling back, but he grabbed a fistful of Sam’s shirt and took him down too.

They both hit the edge of the table and knocked the old thing clean over. Plates smashed, red sauce, noodles, and beer spilled all over the floor.

Sam stumbled to his feet, his shoes slipping in tomato sauce, noodles flopped over his shoulder. He bent over his father and screamed, _“Fuck you!”_ Then he turned around, and stormed out of the room. Bobby heard the back door open and slam shut.

Bobby saw Dean look out over the ruined food he’d spent so long preparing. John was slower to rise, and he sat up, dazed. Dean knelt beside him. “Dad,” he said. “Are you all right?” He put a hand on John’s shoulder, urging him to move. “Lemme see how bad he-…”

“Get your fuckin’ hands off me, you little faggot!” John swung out with his hand, sloppy, and clipped Dean on the face with his half-closed fist. Dean moved back from him quickly, getting to his feet, his hand over his face.

“You aright?” Bobby said. “Dean? Go check on Sam.” Dean looked at him, his eyes red-rimmed, then back at his father. “Go on,” Bobby said. Dean turned and stalked out of the room toward the back door.

John was muttering to himself on the floor as he crawled to his feet. “Fuckin’ bullshit. Unbelievable, those ungrateful little shits.” Beer was soaked into his jeans, and tomato sauce was smeared over his shirt. What a pitiful sight he made, Bobby thought.

“Unbelievable?” Bobby said. “You’re the one who’s unbelievable, John.”

“Whatever. You can fuck off, Singer.”

“No, _you_ can fuck off,” Bobby said. “Sam was right. You really have some goddamn nerve showin’ up here, pullin’ this shit. Gettin’ in a fist fight with a teenager. Talkin’ to Dean like he’s trash, when he’s the best goddamn thing that ever happened to you. What in the hell were you thinking? Look at my goddamn kitchen!”

“Of course. Blame me for this,” John said. His voice was getting more slurred by the moment. “Blame me for everything, it’s all _my_ fault.”

“You’re goddamn right it is,” Bobby said. “The damage you cause, I swear to God. It would have been better if you hadn’t come at all!”

“I got a right to see my boys,” John said, and leaned against the counter.

“They ain’t your _boys_ anymore,” Bobby said. “They’re men. Adults. And they don’t want you here anymore than I do. Now…” He waved a hand. “Get the hell out of here. Please. Leave my house. I have a mess to clean up.”

John bent down to the upturned table, and Bobby thought for a moment that he might be trying to help, might be trying to fix it. But instead, he just picked up the bottle of Jack, which, incredibly, hadn’t shattered.

“Fine. You’re getting’ your wish. I’m outta here. Gettin’ away from this fuckin’ bullshit.” John left the kitchen, and the front door opened and shut. Bobby heard John’s truck start, and rumble away.

His wish? What a laugh. Bobby’s wish was that he could go back in time, stop this whole mess from happening. Stop John from leaving that first time, when he showed up with six-year-old Dean and two-year-old Sam, still fresh and raw from mourning. That first time.

Voices were filtering in from the back porch, and Bobby went over to the back door. The door was open, but the screen was shut. Sam was yelling at the top of his lungs.

“ _-…not goin’ back in there ‘til he’s gone!”_ he hollered. He was pacing back and forth in the grass, still sporting some noodles on his shirt, and Dean stood on the porch steps, watching him. “ _I don’t give a shit! I don’t-…”_

“Sam…” Dean tried.

“ _-…care! He can drive into the fuckin’ Missouri River for all I care! I hope he gets pulled over and fuckin’ arrested! I-…”_

“Sammy, please…” Dean sank down onto the stairs like a deflating balloon, dropping his head into his hands. “Please stop yellin’ at me.”

Sam’s voice cut off, and he stood like a dead windup toy, panting. Then he wiped his eyes, and threw his arms around his brother. Dean hugged him back.

“’M sorry, Dean,” Sam said. “I’m real sorry.”

“’Sokay,” Dean murmured. He pushed Sam back a little, and grasped his chin, examining the swelling on his cheekbone. “How’s this?”

Sam let out a sardonic laugh. “Fuckin’ hurts,” he said.

“I’ll bet.” He released Sam’s chin. “Big faker. He barely grazed ya.”

“Like hell he did.” Sam shook his head, and prodded at the growing bruise. “Felt like more than a graze. I ain’t been hit since I was a little kid. Not really. Forgot how much it hurts.”

“Yeah. He clocked ya pretty good. You dizzy at all or anything?”

“Nah.” Sam glanced over Dean’s shoulder, finally noticing Bobby standing there. Dean wiped his face, and looked over his shoulder. There was an angry, red mark blooming on his own face from where John had got him. Sam called, “Is he gone?”

Bobby pushed the screen door open, and stepped out on to the porch. “He left.”

Dean looked away, but Sam held Bobby’s gaze. “Good fucking riddance,” he said, though his voice was trembling.

***

The time had come. California was calling.

Bobby drove Dean, Sam, and Sam’s big, industrial-sized suitcases to the airport. Bobby paid the horrendous fees to get Sam’s bags checked, and they stood with him while he looked nervously over to the security lines. Dean took Sam’s shoulder, and turned him around to face him.

“Aright. What’s the plan?” he said.

Sam straightened up. He was as tall as Dean now. Taller, maybe. When the hell had that happened? Bobby felt something, a weird pulse inside him, almost like he was close to tears. He shook himself, feeling silly.

Sam said, “Plane gets in at 4:05. I’m gonna call you when we touch down. Get a cab from the airport to the main campus. My student advisor’s waiting to meet me and show me the dorms and stuff. Call you tonight when everything calms down.”

Dean grinned. “Good man.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small bundle, then pressed it into Sam’s hand.

“What’s…?”

“Been savin’ it for you. It’ll tide you over a while, ‘til you get settled and get a job or somethin’.”

“Dean, no.” Sam shook his head. “I’ve been workin’. I don’t need this.”

“Shut the hell up,” Dean said. He was smiling warmly. “Yeah, you do. You ain’t made shit workin’ at that store, and you’re gonna need to buy your books and all.”

“I have enough to pay for my books. More than enough.”

"Use it to buy something fun, then. Stuff for your dorm. Snacks. I dunno. Whatever college kids like.”

Sam’s face screwed up, and he took the money, zipped it into his sweatshirt pocket. “Okay. Thank you.” He stood, staring at the floor for a long moment.

“What is it?” Dean said. “What’s up?”

“I…” Sam shook his head. “This feels… different. Then I thought.”

“What do you mean?” Dean tried to grin at him. “Can’t back out now, Sammy.”

“No. I just…” Sam sniffed, and then threw his arms around Dean’s shoulders. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Me too,” Dean got out. “Gonna miss you a whole hell of a lot.” He squeezed Sam tight. “You better fuckin’ visit soon, or I swear to God…”

“I will.”

Dean released him and turned away, quickly scrubbing at his eyes. “Go say g’bye to Bobby, too. He’s gonna miss you, ya know.”

Sam turned to Bobby, and gave him a big hug.

“Thank you for everything,” Sam said. “I love you, Bobby.”

Bobby tensed in surprise. “Oh. I… I love you too, Sam,” he said, patting Sam’s back. Neither of the boys had ever said that to him before. Sam picked up his carry-on, gave Dean one more hug, and walked off toward the security lines without looking back.

They drove back home in the rain. Bobby watched tears cut a path down Dean’s face as they stopped at a red light, and Dean swiped them away slowly, his eyes on nothing. Bobby looked quickly away, wishing he could give Dean some privacy, suddenly feeling that horrible thing in his gut that told him he wasn’t far from tears either.

He cleared his throat roughly, then reached out and patted Dean firmly on the shoulder.

“You know he’ll be back, right?” Bobby said. “Christmas ain’t that far off. Hell, maybe we can scrape a few bucks together and bring him home for Thanksgiving, too.”

Dean nodded, but didn’t respond.

***

Bobby felt Sam’s absence like a missing hand. He was sure Dean felt the same. It was like Dean’s other half was gone. Over the next month he became quiet, withdrawn. If he were anyone else, Bobby might call him depressed. He went out more and more, working or… seeing people. Bobby didn’t know, but was determined to give him some space.

And then, Dean sat down at the dinner table with him, and said, “There’s a job down in Sioux City. Mechanic. It’s part time, but.”

Bobby whistled. “You sure? That’ll be a helluva commute. I can always use more help around here if you’re gettin’ bored at the Roadhouse.”

“No, I…” Dean said, and then stopped. Bobby looked at him. Dean’s face was red, and Bobby understood.

So, Dean was off to Sioux City. And then a brief stay in Lincoln, before sling-shotting back up to Omaha. And then, finally, to rest in Kansas City, only a stone’s throw away from his birthplace in Lawrence. And Bobby thought, who could blame him for wanting a little distance? After everything. Who could blame him?

So he changed the sheets in their rooms occasionally, but otherwise kept them as they were. They were guest rooms, technically, he supposed. But really, they would always belong to Dean and Sam. His boys, he thought sometimes, even though it felt strange to think it. His boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Consent issues, revoking consent, rape, domestic violence, homophobia, child abuse, guns, alcoholism
> 
> The next chapter needs a lot of work. It may be two weeks before my next update, but I'll try to update sooner. 
> 
> Leave a comment... if you dare...


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